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The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 


The  Autobiography  qf 
a  Thief 


Recorded  by 
HUTCHINS  HAPGOOD 

Author  of"  The  Spirit  of  the  Ghetto,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
FOX,  DUFFIELD  ^  COMPANY 

1903 


Copyright,   1903,  By 
Fox,  DuFFiELD  &  Company 


Entered  at  the  Library  of  Congress,  IVashington,  U.  S.  A. 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England. 


Published  May,  190). 


V\N 


"  O^,  happy  he  who  can  still  hope  to  emerge  from  this 

sea  of  error  I " 

Faust. 

"  There  is  no  man  doth  a  wrong  for  the  wrong's  sake, 
but  thereby  to  purchase  himself  profit,  or  pleasure,  or  hon- 
our, or  the  like  ;  therefore  why  should  I  be  angry  with  a 
man  for  loving  himself  better  than  me  1  And  if  any  man 
should  do  wrong  merely  out  of  ill-nature,  why,  yet  it  is  but 
like  the  thorn  or  briar,  which  prick  and  scratch  because  they 

can  do  no  other ^ 

Bacon. 


[5] 


^^  1344269 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter 

Editor's  Note. 
I.     Boyhood  and  Early  Crime 
II.     My  First  Fall 

III.  Mixed   Ale    Life  in  the   Fourth  and 

Seventh  Wards    .... 

IV.  When  the  Graft  Was  Good 
V.     Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds 

VI.  What  the  Burglar  Faces 

VII.  In  Stir      . 

VIII.  In  Stir  (Continued) 

IX.  In  Stir  and  Out     . 

X.  At  the  Graft  Again 

XI.  Back  to  Prison 

XII.  On  the  Outside  Again 

XIII.  In  the  Mad-House    . 

XIV.  Out  of  Hell    . 
Editor's  Postscript 


Page 

9 

15 
34 

50 
73 
89 

107 
132 

154 
182 

202 
228 

255 
300 

332 
348 


[7J 


Editor's  Note. 


I  MET  the  ex-pickpocket  and  burglar  whose 
autobiography  follows  soon  after  his  release 
from  a  third  term  in  the  penitentiary.  For 
several  weeks  I  was  not  particularly  interested 
in  him.  He  was  full  of  a  desire  to  publish  in 
the  newspapers  an  expos^  of  conditions  obtain- 
ing in  two  of  our  state  institutions,  his  motive 
seeming  partly  revenge  and  partly  a  very  gen- 
uine feeling  that  he  had  come  in  contact  with 
a  systematic  crime  against  humanity.  But  as 
I  continued  to  see  more  of  him,  and  learned 
much  about  his  life,  my  interest  grew  ;  for  I 
soon  perceived  that  he  not  only  had  led  a 
typical  thief's  life,  but  was  also  a  man  of  more 
than  common  natural  intelligence,  with  a  gift  of 
vigorous  expression.  With  little  schooling  he 
had  yet  educated  himself,  mainly  by  means  of 
the  prison  libraries,  until  he  had  a  good  and 

[9] 


Editor  s  Note. 

individually  expressed  acquaintance  with  many 
of  the  English  classics,  and  with  some  of  the 
masterpieces  of  philosophy. 

That  this  ex-convict,  when  a  boy  on  the 
East  Side  of  New  York  City,  should  have 
taken  to  the  **  graft "  seemed  to  me,  as  he 
talked  about  it,  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  His  parents  were  honest,  but  ignorant 
and  poor.  One  of  his  brothers,  a  normal  and 
honorable  man,  is  a  truck  driver  with  a  large 
family ;  and  his  relatives  and  honest  friends  in 
general  belong  to  the  most  modest  class  of 
working  people.  The  swell  among  them  is 
another  brother,  who  is  a  policeman ;  but  Jim, 
the  ex-convict,  is  by  far  the  cleverest  and  most 
intelligent  of  the  lot.  I  have  often  seen  him 
and  his  family  together,  on  Saturday  nights, 
when  the  clan  gathers  in  the  truckman's  house 
for  a  good  time,  and  he  is  the  life  of  the  occa- 
sion, and  admired  by  the  others.  Jim  was  an 
unusually  energetic  and  ambitious  boy,  but 
the  respectable  people  he  knew  did  not  appeal 
to   his   imagination.      As   he   played   on    the 

[10] 


Editor's  Note. 

street,  other  boys  pointed  out  to  him  the  swell 
thief  at  the  corner  saloon,  and  told  him  tales 
of  big  robberies  and  exciting  adventures,  and 
the  prizes  of  life  seemed  to  him  to  lie  along 
the  path  of  crime.  There  was  no  one  to  teach 
him  what  constitutes  real  success,  and  he  went 
in  for  crime  with  energy  and  enthusiasm. 

It  was  only  after  he  had  become  a  profes- 
sional thief  and  had  done  time  in  the  prisons 
that  he  began  to  see  that  crime  does  not  pay. 
He  saw  that  all  his  friends  came  to  ruin, 
that  his  own  health  was  shattered,  and  that 
he  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  mad-house.  His 
self-education  in  prison  helped  him,  too,  to 
the  perception  that  he  had  made  a  terrible 
mistake.  He  came  to  have  intellectual  ambi- 
tions and  no  longer  took  an  interest  in  his  old 
companions.  After  several  weeks  of  constant 
association  with  him  I  became  morally  certain 
that  his  reform  was  as  genuine  as  possible 
under  the  circumstances ;  and  that,  with  fair 
success  in  the  way  of  getting  something  to  do, 
he  would  remain  honest. 


Editor  s  Note. 

I  therefore  proposed  to  him  to  write  an 
autobiography.  He  took  up  the  idea  with 
eagerness,  and  through  the  entire  period  of 
our  work  together,  has  shown  an  unwavering 
interest  in  the  book  and  very  decided  acumen 
and  common  sense.  The  method  employed 
in  composing  the  volume  was  that,  practically, 
of  the  interview.  From  the  middle  of  March 
to  the  first  of  July  we  met  nearly  every  after- 
noon, and  many  evenings,  at  a  little  German 
cafd  on  the  East  Side.  There,  I  took  vo- 
luminous notes,  often  asking  questions,  but 
taking  down  as  literally  as  possible  his  story 
in  his  own  words ;  to  such  a  degree  is  this 
true,  that  the  following  narrative  is  an  authen- 
tic account  of  his  life,  with  occasional  descrip- 
tions and  character-sketches  of  his  friends  of 
the  Under  World.  Even  without  my  explicit 
assurance,  the  autobiography  bears  sufficient 
internal  evidence  of  the  fact  that,  essentially, 
it  is  a  thief's  own  story.  Many  hours  of  the 
day  time,  when  I  was  busy  with  other  things, 
my  friend — for  I  have  come  to  look  upon  him 

[12] 


Editor  s  Note, 

as  such — was  occupied  with  putting  down  on 
paper  character-sketches  of  his  pals  and  their 
careers,  or  recording  his  impressions  of  the 
Hfe  they  had  followed.  After  I  had  left  town 
for  the  summer,  in  order  to  prepare  this  vol- 
ume, I  wrote  to  Jim  repeatedly,  asking  for 
more  material  on  certain  points.  This  he 
always  furnished  in  a  manner  which  showed 
his  continued  interest,  and  a  literary  sense, 
though  fragmentary,  of  no  common  kind. 

H.  H. 


[13] 


The  Autobiography  of  z.  Thief. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

I  HAVE  been  a  professional  thief  for  more 
than  twenty  years.  Half  of  that  time  I  have 
spent  in  state's  prison,  and  the  other  half  in 
**  grafting  "  in  one  form  or  another.  I  was  a 
good  pickpocket  and  a  fairly  successful  burglar  ; 
and  I  have  known  many  of  the  best  crooks  in 
the  country.  I  have  left  the  business  for  good, 
and  my  reasons  will  appear  in  the  course  of 
this  narrative.  I  shall  tell  my  story  with  entire 
frankness.  I  shall  not  try  to  defend  myself. 
I  shall  try  merely  to  tell  the  truth.  Perhaps 
in  so  doing  I  shall  explain  myself. 

I  was  born  on  the  east  side  of  New  York 
City  in  1868,  of  poor  but  honest  parents.  My 
father  was  an  Englishman  who  had  married  an 
Irish  girl  and  emigrated  to  America,  where  he 
had  a  large  family,  no  one  of  whom,  with  the 
[15] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

exception  of  myself,  went  wrong.  For  many 
years  he  was  an  employee  of  Brown  Brothers 
and  Company  and  was  a  sober,  industrious 
man,  and  a  good  husband  and  kind  father.  To 
me,  who  was  his  favorite,  he  was  perhaps  too 
kind.  I  was  certainly  a  spoiled  child.  I  re- 
member that  when  I  was  five  years  old  he 
bought  me  a  twenty-five  dollar  suit  of  clothes. 
I  was  a  vigorous,  handsome  boy,  with  red, 
rosy  cheeks  and  was  not  only  the  pet  of  my 
family,  but  the  life  of  the  neighborhood  as 
well. 

At  that  time,  which  is  as  far  back  as  I  can 
remember,  we  were  living  on  Munro  Street,  in 
the  Seventh  Ward.  This  was  then  a  good 
residential  neighborhood,  and  we  were  comfort- 
able in  our  small,  wooden  house.  The  people 
about  us  were  Irish  and  German,  the  large 
Jewish  emigration  not  having  begun  yet.  Con- 
sequently, lower  New  York  did  not  have  such 
a  strong  business  look  as  it  has  now,  but  was 
cleanly  and  respectable.  The  gin-mills  were 
fewer  in  number,  and  were  comparatively 
decent.  When  the  Jews  came  they  started 
many  basement  saloons,  or  caf^s,  and  for  the 
first  time,  I  believe,  the  social  evil  began  to  be 
connected  with  the  drinking  places. 
[i6] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

I  committed  my  first  theft  at  the  age  of  six. 
Older  heads  put  me  up  to  steal  money  from 
the  till  of  my  brother's  grocery  store.  It  hap- 
pened this  way.  There  were  several  much 
older  boys  in  the  neighborhood  who  wanted 
money  for  row-boating  and  theatres.  One  was 
eighteen  years  old,  a  ship-caulker  ;  and  another 
was  a  roustabout  of  seventeen.  I  used  to  watch 
these  boys  practice  singing  and  dancing  in  the 
big  marble  lots  in  the  vicinity.  How  they  fired 
my  youthful  imagination  !  They  told  me  about 
the  theatres  then  in  vogue — Tony  Pastor's, 
the  old  Globe,  Wood's  Museum  and  Josh 
Hart's  Theatre  Comique,  afterwards  owned  by 
Harrigan  and  Hart. 

One  day,  George,  the  roustabout,  said  to  me  : 
"  Kid,  do  you  want  to  go  row-boating  with  us  ?  " 
When  I  eagerly  consented  he  said  it  was  too 
bad,  but  the  boat  cost  fifty  cents  and  he  only 
had  a  ten-cent  stamp  (a  small  paper  bill  :  in 
those  days  there  was  very  little  silver  in  circu- 
lation). I  did  not  bite  at  once,  I  was  so  young, 
and  they  treated  me  to  one  of  those  wooden 
balls  fastened  to  a  rubber  string  that  you  throw 
out  and  catch  on  the  rebound.  I  was  tickled 
to  death.  I  shall  never  forget  that  day  as 
long  as  I  live.  It  was  a  Saturday,  and  all 
[17] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

day  long  those  boys  couldn't  do  too  much  for 
me. 

Towards  evening  they  explained  to  me  how 
to  rob  my  brother's  till.  They  arranged  to  be 
outside  the  store  at  a  certain  hour,  and  wait 
until  I  found  an  opportunity  to  pass  the  money 
to  them.  My  mother  watched  in  the  store  that 
evening,  but  when  she  turned  her  back  I 
opened  the  till  and  gave  the  eight  or  ten  dol- 
lars it  contained  to  the  waiting  boys.  We  all 
went  row-boating  and  had  a  jolly  time.  But 
they  were  not  satisfied  with  that.  What  I  had 
done  once,  I  could  do  again,  and  they  held  out 
the  theatre  to  me,  and  pretended  to  teach  me 
how  to  dance  the  clog.  Week  in  and  week 
out  I  furnished  them  with  money,  and  in  re- 
compense they  would  sometimes  take  me  to  a 
matinee.  What  a  joy  !  How  I  grew  to  love 
the  vaudeville  artists  with  their  songs  and 
dances,  and  the  wild  Bowery  melodramas  !  It 
was  a  great  day  for  Indian  plays,  and  the 
number  of  Indians  I  have  scalped  in  imagina- 
tion, after  one  of  these  shows,  is  legion. 

Some  of  the  small  boys,  however,  who  did  not 

share  in  the  booty  grew  jealous  and  told  my 

father  what  was  doing.     The  result  was  that 

a  certain  part  of  my  body  was  sore  for  weeks 

[i8] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

afterwards.  My  feelings  were  hurt,  too,  for  I 
did  not  know  at  that  time  that  I  was  doing 
anything  very  bad.  My  father,  indeed,  ac- 
companied the  beating  with  a  sermon,  telling 
me  that  I  had  not  only  broken  God's  law  but 
had  robbed  those  that  loved  me.  One  of  my 
brothers,  who  is  now  a  policeman  in  the  city 
service,  told  me  that  I  had  taken  my  ticket  for 
the  gallows.  The  brother  I  had  robbed,  who 
afterwards  became  a  truckman,  patted  me  on 
the  head  and  told  me  not  to  do  it  again.  He 
was  always  a  good  fellow.  And  yet  they  all 
seemed  to  like  to  have  me  play  about  the 
streets  with  the  other  little  boys,  perhaps  be- 
cause the  family  was  large,  and  there  was  not 
much  room  in  the  house. 

So  I  had  to  give  up  the  till ;  but  I  hated  to, 
for  even  at  that  age  I  had  begun  to  think  that 
the  world  owed  me  a  living  !  To  get  revenge 
I  used  to  hide  in  a  charcoal  shed  and  throw 
pebbles  at  my  father  as  he  passed.  I  was  in- 
deed the  typical  bad  boy,  and  the  apple  of  my 
mother's  eye. 

When  I  couldn't  steal  from  the  till  any  more, 

I  used  to  take  clothes  from  my  relatives  and 

sell    them    for   theatre  money ;  or  any   other 

object  I  thought  I  could  make  away  with.     I 

[19] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

did  not  steal  merely  for  theatre  money  but 
partly  for  excitement  too.  I  liked  to  run  the 
risk  of  being  discovered.  So  I  was  up  to  any 
scheme  the  older  boys  proposed.  Perhaps  if 
I  had  been  raised  in  the  wild  West  I  should 
have  made  a  good  trapper  or  cow-boy,  instead 
of  a  thief.  Or  perhaps  even  birds'  nests  and 
fish  would  have  satisfied  me,  if  they  had  been 
accessible. 

One  of  my  biggest  exploits  as  a  small  boy 
was  made  when  I  was  eight  years  old.  Tom's 
mother  had  a  friend  visiting  her,  whom  Tom 
and  I  thought  we  would  rob.  Tom,  who  was 
a  big  boy,  and  some  of  his  friends,  put  me 
through  a  hall  bed-room  window,  and  I  made 
away  with  a  box  of  valuable  jewelry.  But 
it  did  me  no  good  for  the  big  boys  sold  it  to  a 
woman  who  kept  a  second-hand  store  on 
Division  Street,  and  I  received  no  part  of  the 
proceeds. 

My  greatest  youthful  disappointment  came 
about  four  weeks  later.  A  boy  put  me  up  to 
steal  a  box  out  of  a  wagon.  I  boldly  made 
away  with  it  and  ran  into  a  hall-way,  where  he 
was  waiting.  The  two  of  us  then  went  into 
his  back-yard,  opened  the  box  and  found  a 
beautiful  sword,  the  handle  studded  with  little 
[20] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

stones.  But  the  other  boy  had  promised  me 
money,  and  here  was  only  a  sword  !  I  cried  for 
theatre  money,  and  then  the  other  boy  boxed 
my  ears.  He  went  to  his  father,  who  was  a 
freemason,  and  got  a  fifty  cent  "stamp."  He 
gave  me  two  three-cent  pieces  and  kept  the  rest. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  injustice  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  remember  it  as  plainly  as  if  it  happened 
yesterday.  We  put  the  sword  under  a  mill  in 
Cherry  Street  and  it  disappeared  a  few  hours 
later.  I  thought  the  boy  and  his  father  had 
stolen  it,  and  told  them  so.  I  got  another 
beating,  but  I  believe  my  suspicion  was  correct, 
for  the  free  mason  used  to  give  me  a  ten  cent 
stamp  whenever  he  saw  me — to  square  me,  I 
suppose. 

When  it  came  to  contests  with  boys  of  my 
own  size  I  was  not  so  meek,  however.  One 
day  I  was  playing  in  Jersey,  in  the  back-yard 
of  a  boy  friend's  house.  He  displayed  his 
pen-knife,  and  it  took  my  fancy.  I  wanted  to 
play  with  it,  and  asked  him  to  lend  it  to  me. 
He  refused,  and  I  grabbed  his  hand.  He 
plunged  the  knife  into  my  leg.  I  didn't  like 
that,  and  told  him  so,  not  in  words,  but  in 
action.  I  remember  that  I  took  his  ear  nearly 
off  with  a  hatchet.     I  was  then  eight  years  old. 

[21] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

About  this  time  I  began  to  go  to  Sunday 
School,  with  what  effect  on  my  character  re- 
mains to  be  seen.  One  day  I  heard  a  noted 
priest  preach.  I  had  one  dollar  and  eighty 
cents  in  my  pocket  which  I  had  stolen  from 
my  brother.  I  thought  that  each  coin  in  my 
pocket  was  turning  red-hot  because  of  my 
anxiety  to  spend  it.  While  the  good  man  was 
talking  of  the  Blessed  One  I  was  inwardly 
praying  for  him  to  shut  up.  He  had  two 
beautiful  pictures  which  he  intended  to  give 
to  the  best  listener  among  the  boys.  When 
he  had  finished  his  talk  he  called  me  to  him, 
gave  me  the  pictures  and  said :  "  It's  such 
boys  as  you  who,  when  they  grow  up,  are  a 
pride  to  our  Holy  Church." 

A  year  later  I  went  to  the  parochial  school, 
but  did  not  stay  long,  for  they  would  not 
have  me.  I  was  a  sceptic  at  seven  and  an 
agnostic  at  eight,  and  I  objected  to  the  pray- 
ers every  five  minutes.  I  had  no  respect  for 
ceremonies.  They  did  not  impress  my  imagin- 
ation in  the  slightest,  partly  because  I  learned 
at  an  early  age  to  see  the  hypocrisy  of  many 
good  people.  One  day  half  a  dozen  persons 
were  killed  in  an  explosion.  One  of  them  I 
had  known.     Neighbors  said  of  him  :  "  What 

[22] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

a  good  man  has  gone,"  and  the  priest  and  my 
mother  said  he  was  in  heaven.  But  he  was 
the  same  man  who  had  often  told  me  not  to 
take  money  from  the  money-drawer,  for  that 
was  dangerous,  but  to  search  my  father's 
pockets  when  he  was  asleep.  For  this  advice 
I  had  given  the  rascal  many  a  dollar.  Ever 
after  that  I  was  suspicious  of  those  who  were 
over-virtuous.  I  told  my  mother  I  did  not 
believe  her  and  the  priest,  and  she  slapped 
my  face  and  told  me  to  mind  my  catechism. 

Everything  mischievous  that  happened  at 
the  parochial  school  was  laid  to  my  account, 
perhaps  not  entirely  unjustly.  If  a  large  fire- 
cracker exploded,  it  was  James — that  was  my 
name.  If  some  one  sat  on  a  bent  pin,  the 
blame  was  due  to  James.  If  the  class  tit- 
tered teacher  Nolan  would  rush  at  me  with  a 
hickory  stick  and  yell :  "  It's  you,  you  devil's 
imp  ! "  and  then  he'd  put  the  question  he  had 
asked  a  hundred  times  before :  "  Who  med 
(made)  you  ?" 

I  was  finally  sent  away  from  the  parochial 
school  because  I  insulted  one  of  the  teachers, 
a  Catholic  brother.  I  persisted  in  disturbing 
him  whenever  he  studied  his  catechism,  which 
I  believed  he  already  knew  by  heart.  This 
[23] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

brother's  favorite,  by  the  way,  was  a  boy  who 
used  to  say  his  prayers  louder  than  anybody 
else.  I  met  him  fifteen  years  afterwards  in 
state's  prison.  He  had  been  settled  for  "  vo- 
gel-grafting,"  that  is,  taking  little  girls  into 
hall-ways  and  robbing  them  of  their  gold  ear- 
rings. He  turned  out  pretty  well,  however, 
in  one  sense,  for  he  became  one  of  the  best 
shoe-makers  in  Sing  Sing. 

Although,  as  one  can  see  from  the  above 
incidents,  I  was  not  given  to  veneration,  yet  in 
some  ways  I  was  easily  impressed.  I  always 
loved  old  buildings,  for  instance.  I  was 
baptized  in  the  building  which  was  until  lately 
the  Germania  Theatre,  and  which  was  then  a 
church ;  and  that  old  structure  always  had  a 
strange  fascination  for  me.  I  used  to  hang 
about  old  churches  and  theatres,  and  preferred 
on  such  occasions  to  be  alone.  Sometimes  I 
sang  and  danced,  all  by  myself,  in  an  old 
music  hall,  and  used  to  pore  over  the  names 
marked  in  lead  pencil  on  the  walls.  Many  is 
the  time  I  have  stood  at  night  before  some 
old  building  which  has  since  been  razed  to  the 
ground,  and  even  now  I  like  to  go  round 
to  their  sites.  I  like  almost  anything  that  is 
old,  even  old  men  and  women.  I  never  loved 
[24] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

my  mother  much  until  she  was  an  old  woman. 
All  stories  of  the  past  interested  me;  and 
later,  when  I  was  in  prison,  I  was  specially 
fond  of  history. 

After  I  was  dismissed  from  the  parochial 
school,  I  entered  the  public  school,  where  I 
stayed  somewhat  longer.  There  I  studied 
reading,  writing,  arithmetic  and  later,  gram- 
mar, and  became  acquainted  with  a  few  speci- 
mens of  literature.  I  remember  Longfellow's 
Excelsior  was  a  favorite  of  mine.  I  was  a 
bright,  intelligent  boy,  and,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  conduct,  in  which  my  mark  was  low,  I 
should  always  have  had  the  gold  medal,  in  a 
class  of  seventy.  I  used  to  play  truant  con- 
stantly, and  often  went  home  and  told  my 
mother  that  I  knew  more  than  the  teacher. 
She  believed  me,  for  certainly  I  was  the  most 
intelligent  member  of  my  family. 

Yes,  I  was  more  intelligent  than  my  parents 
or  any  of  my  brothers  and  sisters.  Much  good 
it  has  done  me!  Now  that  I  have  "squared 
it "  I  see  a  good  deal  of  my  family,  and  they 
are  all  happy  in  comparison  with  me.  On 
Saturday  nights  I  often  go  around  to  see  my 
brother  the  truckman.  He  has  come  home 
tired  from  his  week's  work,  but  happy  with  his 
[25] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

twelve  dollar  salary  and  the  prospect  of  a 
holiday  with  his  wife  and  children.  They  sit 
about  in  their  humble  home  on  Saturday  night, 
with  their  pint  of  beer,  their  songs  and  their 
jovial  stories.  Whenever  I  am  there,  I  am,  in 
a  way,  the  life  of  the  party.  My  repartee  is 
quicker  than  that  of  the  others.  I  sing  gayer 
songs  and  am  jollier  with  the  working  girls  who 
visit  my  brother's  free  home.  But  when  I  look 
at  my  stupid  brother's  quiet  face  and  calm  and 
strong  bearing,  and  then  realize  my  own 
shattered  health  and  nerves  and  profound  dis- 
content, I  know  that  my  slow  brother  has  been 
wiser  than  I.  It  has  taken  me  many  years  on 
the  rocky  path  to  realize  this  truth.  For  by 
nature  I  am  an  Ishmaelite,  that  is,  a  man  of 
impulse,  and  it  is  only  lately  that  wisdom  has 
been  knocked  into  me. 

Certainly  I  did  not  realize  my  fate  when  I 
was  a  kid  of  ten,  filled  with  contempt  for  my 
virtuous  and  obscure  family  !  I  was  overflow- 
ing with  spirits  and  arrogance,  and  began  to 
play  **  hooky "  so  often  that  I  practically  quit 
school  about  this  time. 

It  was  then,  too,  that  we  moved  again,  this 
time  to  Cherry  Street,  to  the  wreck  of  my  life. 
At  the  end  of  the  block  on  which  we  lived  was 

[26] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

a  corner  saloon,  the  headquarters  of  a  band  of 
professional  thieves.  They  were  known  as  the 
Old  Border  Gang,  and  among  them  were 
several  very  well-known  and  successful  crooks. 
They  used  to  pass  our  way  regularly,  and  boys 
older  than  I  (my  boy  companions  always  had 
the  advantage  of  me  in  years)  used  to  point  the 
famous  "  guns  "  out  to  me.  When  I  saw  one 
of  these  great  men  pass,  my  young  imagination 
was  fired  with  the  ambition  to  be  as  he  was  ! 
With  what  eagerness  we  used  to  talk  about 
**  Juggy,"  and  the  daring  robbery  he  committed 
in  Brooklyn  !  How  we  went  over  again  and 
again  in  conversation,  the  trick  by  which 
Johnny  the  "grafter"  had  fooled  the  detective 
in  the  matter  of  the  bonds  ! 

We  would  tell  stories  like  these  by  the  hour, 
and  then  go  round  to  the  corner,  to  try  to  get 
a  look  at  some  of  the  celebrities  in  the  saloon. 
A  splendid  sight  one  of  these  swell  grafters 
was,  as  he  stood  before  the  bar  or  smoked  his 
cigar  on  the  corner  !  Well  dressed,  with  clean 
linen  collar  and  shirt,  a  diamond  in  his  tie,  an 
air  of  ease  and  leisure  all  about  him,  what  a 
contrast  he  formed  to  the  respectable  hod- 
carrier  or  truckman  or  mechanic,  with  soiled 
clothes  and  no  collar  !  And  what  a  contrast 
[27] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

was  his  dangerous  life  to  that  of  the  virtuous 
laborer ! 

The  result  was  that  I  grew  to  think  the 
career  of  the  grafter  was  the  only  one  worth  try- 
ing for.  The  real  prizes  of  the  world  I  knew 
nothing  about.  All  that  I  saw  of  any  interest 
to  me  was  crooked,  and  so  I  began  to  pilfer 
right  and  left :  there  was  nothing  else  for  me 
to  do.  Besides  I  loved  to  treat  those  older 
than  myself.  The  theatre  was  a  growing 
passion  with  me  and  I  began  to  be  very  much 
interested  in  the  baseball  games.  I  used  to 
go  to  the  Union  grounds  in  Brooklyn,  where 
after  the  third  inning,  I  could  usually  get  ad- 
mitted for  fifteen  cents,  to  see  the  old  Athletics 
or  Mutuals  play.  I  needed  money  for  these 
amusements,  for  myself  and  other  boys,  and  I 
knew  of  practically  only  one  way  to  get  it. 

If  we  could  not  get  the  money  at  home, 
either  by  begging  or  stealing,  we  would  tap 
tills,  if  possible,  in  the  store  of  some  relative ; 
or  tear  brass  off  the  steps  in  the  halls  of  flats 
and  sell  it  at  junk  shops.  A  little  later,  we 
used  to  go  to  Grand  Street  and  steal  shoes 
and  women's  dresses  from  the  racks  in  the 
open  stores,  and  pawn  them.  In  the  old 
Seventh  Ward  there  used  to  be  a  good  many 
[28] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

silver  plates  on  the  doors  of  private  houses. 
These  we  would  take  off  with  chisels  and  sell 
to  metal  dealers.  We  had  great  fun  with  a 
Dutchman  who  kept  a  grocery  store  on  Cherry- 
Street.  We  used  to  steal  his  strawberries, 
and  did  not  care  whether  he  saw  us  or  not. 
If  he  grabbed  one  of  us,  the  rest  of  the  gang 
would  pelt  him  with  stones  until  he  let  go,  and 
then  all  run  around  the  corner  before  the 
'*  copper  "  came  into  sight. 

All  this  time  I  grew  steadily  bolder  and 
more  desperate,  and  the  day  soon  came  when 
I  took  consequences  very  little  into  considera- 
tion. My  father  and  mother  sometimes 
learned  of  some  exploit  of  mine,  and  a  beating 
would  be  the  result.  I  still  got  the  blame  for 
everything,  as  in  school,  and  was  sometimes 
punished  unjustly.  I  was  very  sensitive  and 
this  would  rankle  in  my  soul  for  weeks,  so  that 
I  stole  harder  than  ever.  And  yet  I  think 
that  there  was  some  good  in  me.  I  was  never 
cruel  to  any  animals,  except  cats ;  for  cats,  I 
used  to  tie  their  tails  together^and  throw  them 
over  a  clothesline  to  dry.  I  liked  dogs, 
horses,  children  and  women,  and  have  always 
been  gentle  to  them.  What  I  really  was  was 
a  healthy  young  animal,  with  a  vivid  imagina- 
[29] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

tion  and  a  strong  body.  I  learned  early  to 
swim  and  fight  and  play  base-ball.  Dime  and 
nickel  novels  always  seemed  very  tame  to  me ; 
I  found  it  much  more  exciting  to  hear  true 
stories  about  the  grafters  at  the  corner  saloon  ! 
— big  men,  with  whom  as  yet  I  did  not  dare 
to  speak ;  I  could  only  stare  at  them  with 
awe. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  ever  saw 
a  pickpocket  at  work.  It  was  when  I  was 
about  thirteen  years  old.  A  boy  of  my  own 
age,  Zack,  a  great  pal  of  mine,  was  with  me. 
Zack  and  I  understood  one  another  thoroughly 
and  well  knew  how  to  get  theatre  money  by 
petty  pilfering,  but  of  real  graft  we  were  as 
yet  ignorant,  although  we  had  heard  many 
stories  about  the  operations  of  actual,  profes- 
sional thieves.  We  used  to  steal  rides  in  the 
cars  which  ran  to  and  from  the  Grand  Street 
ferries  ;  and  run  off  with  overcoats  and  satchels 
when  we  had  a  chance.  One  day  we  were 
standing  on  the  rear  platform  when  a  woman 
boarded  the  car,  and  immediately  behind  her 
a  gentlemanly  looking  man  with  a  high  hat. 
He  was  well-dressed  and  looked  about  thirty- 
five  years  old.  As  the  lady  entered  the  car, 
the  man,  who  stayed  outside  on  the  platform, 
[30] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

pulled  his  hand  away  from  her  side  and  with 
it  came  something  from  her  pocket — a  silk 
handkerchief.  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking 
the  woman  if  she  had  dropped  something, 
when  Zack  said  to  me,  "  Mind  your  own  busi- 
ness." The  man,  who  had  taken  the  pocket- 
book  along  with  the  silk  handkerchief,  seeing 
that  we  were  "next,"  gave  us  the  handker- 
chief and  four  dollars  in  ten  and  fifteen  cent 
paper  money  ("  stamps  "). 

Zack  and  I  put  our  heads  together.  We 
were  "wiser"  than  we  had  been  half  an  hour 
before.  We  had  learned  our  first  practical 
lesson  in  the  world  of  graft.  We  had  seen  a 
pickpocket  at  work,  and  there  seemed  to  us  no 
reason  why  we  should  not  try  the  game  our- 
selves. Accordingly  a  day  or  two  afterwards 
we  arranged  to  pick  our  first  pocket.  We 
had,  indeed,  often  taken  money  from  the 
pockets  of  our  relatives,  but  that  was  when 
the  trousers  hung  in  the  closet  or  over  a  chair, 
and  the  owner  was  absent.  This  was  the  first 
time  we  had  hunted  in  the  open,  so  to  speak  ; 
the  first  time  our  prey  was  really  alive. 

It  was  an    exciting  occasion.     Zack  and  I, 
who   were  "wise,"  (that  is,  up  to  snuff)  got 
several  other  boys  to  help  us,  though  we  did 
[31] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

not  tell  them  what  was  doing,  for  they  "  were 
not  buried  "  yet,  that  is,  "  dead,"  or  ignorant. 
We  induced  five  or  six  of  them  to  jump  on 
and  off  the  rear  platform  of  a  car,  making  as 
much  noise  and  confusion  as  possible,  so  as  to 
distract  the  attention  of  any  "sucker"  that 
might  board.  Soon  I  saw  a  woman  about  to 
get  on  the  car.  My  heart  beat  with  excite- 
ment, and  I  signalled  to  Zack  that  I  would 
make  the  *'  touch."  In  those  days  women 
wore  big  sacques  with  pockets  in  the  back, 
open,  so  that  one  could  look  in  and  see  what 
was  there.  I  took  the  silk  handkerchief  on 
the  run,  and  with  Zack  following,  went  up  a 
side  street  and  gloried  under  a  lamp-post. 
In  the  corner  of  the  handkerchief,  tied  up, 
were  five  two-dollar  bills,  and  for  weeks  I  was 
J.  P.  Morgan. 

For  a  long  time  Zack  and  I  felt  we  were 
the  biggest  boys  on  the  block.  We  boasted 
about  our  great  "  touch  "  to  the  older  boys  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age  who  had 
pointed  out  to  us  the  grafters  at  the  corner 
saloon.  They  were  not  "in  it"  now.  They 
even  condescended  to  be  treated  to  a  drink 
by  us.  We  spent  the  money  recklessly,  for 
we  knew  where  we  could  get  more.  In  this 
[32] 


Boyhood  and  Early  Crime. 

state  of  mind,  soon  after  that,  I  met  the 
'*  pick  "  whom  we  had  seen  at  work.  He  had 
heard  of  our  achievement  and  kindly  **  staked" 
us,  and  gave  us  a  few  private  lessons  in  pick- 
ing pockets.  He  saw  that  we  were  promising 
youngsters,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  profession 
gave  us  a  little  of  his  valuable  time.  We 
were  proud  enough,  to  be  taken  notice  of  by 
this  great  man.  We  felt  that  we  were  rising 
in  the  world  of  graft,  and  began  to  wear  col- 
lars and  neckties. 


[33] 


CHAPTER  II. 

My  First  Fall. 

For  the  next  two  years,  until  I  was  fifteen, 
I  made  a  great  deal  of  money  at  picking 
pockets,  without  getting  into  difficulties  with 
the  police.  We  operated,  at  that  time,  en- 
tirely upon  women,  and  were  consequently 
known  technically  as  Moll-buzzers — or  "  flies  " 
that  "  buzz  "  about  women. 

In  those  days,  and  for  several  years  later, 
Moll-buzzing,  as  well  as  picking  pockets  in 
general,  was  an  easy  and  lucrative  graft. 
Women's  dresses  seemed  to  be  arranged  for 
our  especial  benefit ;  the  back  pocket,  with  its 
purse  and  silk  handkerchief  could  be  picked 
even  by  the  rawest  thief.  It  was  in  the  days 
when  every  woman  had  to  possess  a  fine  silk 
handkerchief ;  even  the  Bowery  "  cruisers " 
(street-walkers)  carried  them ;  and  to  those 
women  we  boys  used  to  sell  the  handkerchiefs 
we  had  stolen,  receiving  as  much  as  a  dollar, 
or  even  two  dollars,  in  exchange. 

It  was  a  time,  too,  before  the  great  depart- 
[34] 


My  First  Fall. 

ment  stores  and  delivery  wagon  systems,  and 
shoppers  were  compelled  to  carry  more  money 
with  them  than  they  do  now,  and  to  take 
their  purchases  home  themselves  through  the 
streets.  Very  often  before  they  reached  their 
destination  they  had  unconsciously  delivered 
some  of  the  goods  to  us.  At  that  time,  too, 
the  wearing  of  valuable  pins  and  stones,  both 
by  men  and  women,  was  more  general  than 
it  is  now.  Furthermore,  the  "graft"  was 
younger.  There  were  not  so  many  in  the 
business,  and  the  system  of  police  protection 
was  not  so  good.  Altogether  those  were  hal- 
cyon days  for  us. 

The  fact  that  we  were  very  young  helped 
us  particularly  in  this  business ,  for  a  boy  can 
get  next  to  a  woman  in  a  car  or  on  the  street 
more  easily  than  a  man  can.  He  is  not  so  apt 
to  arouse  her  suspicions  ;  and  if  he  is  a  hand- 
some, innocent-looking  boy,  and  clever,  he  can 
go  far  in  this  line  of  graft.  He  usually  begins 
this  business  when  he  is  about  thirteen,  and  by 
the  age  of  seventeen  generally  graduates  into 
something  higher.  Living  off  women,  in  any 
form,  does  not  appeal  very  long  to  the  imag- 
ination of  the  genuine  grafter.  Yet  I  know 
thieves  who  continue  to  be  Moll-buzzers  all 
[35] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

their  lives ;  and  who  are  low  enough  to  make 
their  living  entirely  off  poor  working  girls. 
The  self-respecting  grafter  detests  this  kind  ; 
and,  indeed,  these  buzzers  never  see  prosper- 
ous days  after  their  boyhood.  The  business 
grows  more  difficult  as  the  thief  grows  older. 
He  cannot  approach  his  prey  so  readily,  and 
grows  shabbier  with  declining  returns ;  and 
shabbiness  makes  it  difficult  for  him  to  mix  up 
in  crowds  where  this  kind  of  work  is  generally 
done. 

For  several  years  we  youngsters  made  a 
great  deal  of  money  at  this  line.  We  made  a 
"touch"  almost  every  day,  and  I  suppose  our 
"mob,"  composed  of  four  or  five  lads  who 
worked  together,  averaged  three  or  four  hun- 
dred dollars  a  week.  We  worked  mainly  on 
street  cars  at  the  Ferry,  and  the  amount  of 
"technique  "  required  for  robbing  women  was 
very  slight.  Two  or  three  of  us  generally 
went  together.  One  acted  as  the  "  dip,"  or 
"  pick,"  and  the  other  two  as  "  stalls."  The 
duty  of  the  "stalls"  was  to  distract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  "sucker"  or  victim,  or  otherwise 
to  hide  the  operations  of  the  "  dip".  One 
stall  would  get  directly  in  front  of  the  woman 
to  be  robbed,  the  other  directly  behind  her.     If 

[36] 


My  First  Fall. 

she  were  in  such  a  position  in  the  crowd  as  to 
render  it  hard  for  the  "  dip,"  or  "  wire "  to 
make  a  "  touch,"  one  of  the  stalls  might  bump 
against  her,  and  beg  her  pardon,  while  the  dip 
made  away  with  her  "leather,"  or  pocket-book. 
Shortly  before  I  was  fifteen  years  old  I  was 
"  let  in  "  to  another  kind  of  graft.  One  day 
Tim,  Zack  and  I  were  boasting  of  our  earnings 
to  an  older  boy,  twenty  years  of  age,  whose 
name  was  Pete.  He  grinned,  and  said  he  knew 
something  better  than  Moll-buzzing.  Then 
he  told  us  about  "  shoving  the  queer  "  and  got 
us  next  to  a  public  truckman  who  supplied 
counterfeit  bills.  Our  method  was  to  carry 
only  one  bad  bill  among  several  good  ones,  so 
that  if  we  were  collared  we  could  maintain  our 
innocence.  We  worked  this  as  a  "  side-graft," 
for  some  time.  Pete  and  I  used  to  go  to  mass 
on  Sunday  morning,  and  put  a  bad  five  dollar 
bill  in  the  collector's  box,  taking  out  four  dol- 
lars and  ninety  cents  in  change,  in  good  money. 
We  irreverently  called  this  proceeding  "robbing 
the  dago  in  Rome."  We  use  to  pick  "  leathers," 
at  the  same  time,  from  the  women  in  the  congre- 
gation. In  those  days  I  was  very  liberal  in  my 
religious  views.  I  was  not  narrow,  or  bigoted. 
I  attended  Grace  Church,  in  Tenth  Street, 
[37] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

regularly  and  was  always  well  repaid.  But 
after  a  while  this  lucrative  graft  came  to  an 
end,  for  the  collector  began  to  get  "  next". 
One  day  he  said  to  me,  *'  Why  don't  you  get 
your  change  outside  ?  This  is  the  fourth  time 
you  have  given  me  a  big  bill."  So  we  got 
"leary"  (suspicious)  and  quit. 

With  my  big  rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes 
and  complexion  I  suppose  I  looked,  in  those 
days,  very  holy  and  innocent,  and  used  to  work 
this  graft  for  all  it  was  worth.  I  remember 
how,  in  church,  I  used  tracts  or  the  Christian 
Advocate  as  "  stalls  "  ;  I  would  hand  them  to 
a  lady  as  she  entered  the  church,  and,  while 
doing  so,  pick  her  pocket. 

Even  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen  I  began 
to  understand  that  it  was  necessary  to  save 
money.  If  a  thief  wants  to  keep  out  of  the 
"pen"  or  "stir,"  (penitentiary)  capital  is  a 
necessity.  The  capital  of  a  grafter  is  called 
"spring-money,"  for  he  may  have  to  use  it  at 
any  time  in  paying  the  lawyer  who  gets  him 
off  in  case  of  an  arrest,  or  in  bribing  the 
policeman  or  some  other  ofificial.  To  "  spring," 
is  to  escape  from  the  clutches  of  the  law. 
If  a  thief  has  not  enough  money  to  hire  a 
"  mouth-piece  "  (criminal  lawyer)  he  is  in  a 
[38] 


My  First  Fall. 

bad  way.     He  is  greatly  handicapped,  and  can 
not  "jump  out"  (steal)  with  any  boldness. 

But  I  always  had  great  difficulty  in  saving 
**  fall-money,"  (the  same  as  spring-money  ;  that 
is  money  to  be  used  in  case  of  a  "fall,"  or 
arrest.)  My  temperament  was  at  fault.  When 
I  had  a  few  hundred  dollars  saved  up  I  began 
to  be  troubled,  not  from  a  guilty  conscience, 
but  because  I  could  not  stand  prosperity. 
The  money  burned  a  hole  in  my  pocket. 
I  was  fond  of  all  sorts  of  amusements,  of 
"treating,"  and  of  clothes.  Indeed,  I  was 
very  much  of  a  dude  ;  and  this  for  two  reasons. 
In  the  first  place  I  was  naturally  vain,  and 
liked  to  make  a  good  appearance.  A  still 
more  substantial  reason  was  that  a  good  per- 
sonal appearance  is  part  of  the  capital  of  a 
grafter,  particularly  of  a  pickpocket.  The 
world  thinks  that  a  thief  is  a  dirty,  disreputa- 
ble looking  object,  next  door  to  a  tramp  in 
appearance.  But  this  idea  is  far  from  being 
true.  Every  grafter  of  any  standing  in  the 
profession  is  very  careful  about  his  clothes. 
He  is  always  neat,  clean,  and  as  fashionable  as 
his  income  will  permit.  Otherwise  he  would 
not  be  permitted  to  attend  large  political 
gatherings,  to  sit  on  the  platform,  for  instance, 
[39] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

and  would  be  handicapped  generally  In  his 
crooked  dealings  with  mankind.  No  advice 
to  young  men  is  more  common  in  respectable 
society  than  to  dress  well.  If  you  look  pros- 
perous the  world  will  treat  you  with  consider- 
ation. This  applies  with  even  greater  force 
to  the  thief.  Keep  up  a  "front"  is  the  uni- 
versal law  of  success,  applicable  to  all  grades 
of  society.  The  first  thing  a  grafter  is  apt  to 
say  to  a  pal  whom  he  has  not  seen  for  a  long 
time  is,  "  You  are  looking  good,"  meaning  that 
his  friend  is  well-dressed.  It  is  sure  flattery, 
and  if  a  grafter  wants  to  make  a  borrow  he  is 
practically  certain  of  opening  the  negotiations 
with  the  stereotyped  phrase  :  "  You  are  look- 
ing good  ;  "  for  the  only  time  you  can  get  any- 
thing off  a  grafter  is  when  you  can  make  him 
think  you  are  prosperous. 

But  the  great  reason  why  I  never  saved 
much  "fall-money"  was  not  "booze,"  or  thea- 
tres, or  clothes.  "  Look  for  the  woman"  is  a 
phrase,  I  believe,  in  good  society  ;  and  it  cer- 
tainly explains  a  great  deal  of  a  thief's  mis- 
fortunes. Long  before  I  did  anything  in 
Graftdom  but  petty  pilfering,  I  had  begun  to 
go  with  the  little  girls  in  the  neighborhood. 
At  that  time  they  had  no  attraction  for  me, 
[40] 


My  First  Fall. 

but  I  heard  older  boys  say  that  it  was  a  manly 
thing  to  lead  girls  astray,  and  I  was  ambitious 
to  be  not  only  a  good  thief,  but  a  hard  case 
generally.  When  I  was  nine  or  ten  years  old 
I  liked  to  boast  of  the  conquests  I  had  made 
among  little  working  girls  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen.  We  used  to  meet  in  the  hall-ways  of 
tenement  houses,  or  at  their  homes,  but  there 
was  no  sentiment  in  the  relations  between  us, 
at  least  on  my  part.  My  only  pleasure  in 
it  was  the  delight  of  telling  about  it  to  my 
young  companions. 

When  I  was  twelve  years  old  I  met  a  little 
girl  for  whom  I  had  a  somewhat  different 
feeling.  Nellie  was  a  pretty,  blue-eyed  little 
creature,  or  "  tid-bit,"  as  we  used  to  say,  who 
lived  near  my  home  on  Cherry  Street.  I 
used  to  take  her  over  on  the  ferry  for  a  ride, 
or  treat  her  to  ice-cream  ;  and  we  were  really 
chums  ;  but  when  I  began  to  make  money  I 
lost  my  interest  in  her  ;  partly,  too,  because  at 
that  time  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  mar- 
ried woman  of  about  twenty-five  years  old. 
She  discovered  me  one  day  in  the  hallway 
with  Nellie,  and  threatened  to  tell  the  holy 
brother  on  us  if  I  didn't  fetch  her  a  pint  of 
beer.  I  took  the  beer  to  her  room,  and  that 
[41] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

began  a  relationship  of  perhaps  a  year.  She 
used  to  stake  me  to  a  part  of  the  money  her 
husband,  a  workingman,  brought  her  every 
Saturday  night. 

Although  the  girls  meant  very  little  to  me 
until  several  years  later,  I  nevertheless  began 
when  I  was  about  fifteen  to  spend  a  great  deal 
of  money  on  them.  It  was  the  thing  to  do, 
and  I  did  it  with  a  good  grace.  I  used  to  take 
all  kinds  of  working  girls  to  the  balls  in  Wal- 
halla  Hall  in  Orchard  Street ;  or  in  Pythagoras, 
or  Beethoven  Halls,  where  many  pretty  little 
German  girls  of  respectable  families  used 
to  dance  on  Saturday  nights.  It  was  my 
pride  to  buy  them  things — clothes,  pins,  and 
to  take  them  on  excursions ;  for  was  I  not 
a  rising  "gun,"  with  money  in  my  pocket? 
Money,  however,  that  went  as  easily  as  it  had 
come. 

Perhaps  if  I  had  been  able  to  save  money 
at  that  time  I  might  not  have  fallen  (that  is, 
been  arrested)  so  early.  My  first  fall  came, 
however,  when  I  was  fifteen  years  old ;  and  if 
I  was  not  a  confirmed  thief  already,  I  certainly 
was  one  by  the  time  I  left  the  Tombs,  where 
I  stayed  ten  days.  It  happened  this  way. 
Zack  and  I  were  grafting,  buzzing  Molls,  with 
[42] 


My  First  Fall. 

a  pal  named  Jack,  who  afterwards  became  a 
famous  burglar.  He  had  just  escaped  from 
the  Catholic  Protectory,  and  told  us  his 
troubles.  Instead  of  being  alarmed,  however, 
I  grew  bolder,  for  if  Jack  could  "beat"  the 
"  Proteck  "  in  three  months,  I  argued  I  could 
do  it  in  twenty-four  hours.  We  three  ripped 
things  open  for  some  time  ;  but  one  day  we 
were  grafting  on  Sixth  Avenue,  just  below 
Twentieth  Street,  when  I  fell  for  a  "  leather." 
The  "sucker,"  a  good-looking  Moll  was  com- 
ing up  the  Avenue.  Her  "  book,"  which 
looked  fat,  was  sticking  out  of  her  skirt.  I, 
who  was  the  "  wire,"  gave  Jack  and  Zack  the 
tip  (thief's  cough),  and  they  stalled,  one  in 
front,  one  behind.  The  girl  did  not  "  blow  " 
(take  alarm)  and  I  got  hold  of  the  leather 
easily.  It  looked  like  a  get-away,  for  no  one 
on  the  sidewalk  saw  us.  But  as  bad  luck  would 
have  it,  a  negro  coachman,  standing  in  the 
street  by  the  pavement,  got  next,  and  said  to 
me,  "  What  are  you  doing  there  ? "  I  replied, 
"Shut  up,  and  I'll  give  you  two  dollars."  But 
he  caught  hold  of  me  and  shouted  for  the 
police.  I  passed  the  leather  to  Jack,  who 
"  vamoosed."  Zack  hit  the  negro  in  the  face 
and  I  ran  up  Seventh  Avenue,  but  was  caught 
[43] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

by  a  flyman  (policeman),  and  taken  to  the 
station  house. 

On  the  way  to  the  police  station  I  cried 
bitterly,  for,  after  all,  I  was  only  a  boy.  I 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  the  way  of  the 
transgressor  is  hard.  It  was  in  the  afternoon, 
and  I  spent  the  time  until  next  morning  at  ten, 
when  I  was  to  appear  before  the  magistrate,  in 
a  cell  in  the  station-house,  in  the  company  of 
an  old  grafter.  In  the  adjoining  cells  were 
drunkards,  street-walkers  and  thieves  who  had 
been  "  lined  up  "  for  the  night,  and  I  spent  the 
long  hours  in  crying  and  in  listening  to  their 
indecent  songs  and  jokes.  The  old  grafter 
called  to  one  of  the  Tenderloin  girls  that  he 
had  a  kid  with  him  who  was  arrested  for  Moll- 
buzzing.  At  this  they  all  expressed  their 
sympathy  with  me  by  saying  that  I  would 
either  be  imprisoned  for  life  or  be  hanged. 
They  got  me  to  sing  a  song,  and  I  convinced 
them  that  I  was  tough. 

In  the  morning  I  was  arraigned  in  the 
police  court.  As  there  was  no  stolen  property 
on  me,  and  as  the  sucker  was  not  there  to 
make  a  complaint,  I  was  "  settled  "  for  assault 
only,  and  sent  to  the  Tombs  for  ten  days. 

My  experience  in  the  Tombs  may  fairly  be 
[44] 


My  First  Fall. 

called,  I  think,  the  turning  point  of  my  life. 
It  was  there  that  I  met  "de  mob  ".  I  learned 
new  tricks  in  the  Tombs  ;  and  more  than  that, 
I  began  definitely  to  look  upon  myself  as  a 
criminal.  The  Tombs  of  twenty  years  ago 
was  even  less  cheerful  than  it  is  at  present. 
The  Boys'  Prison  faced  the  Women's  Prison, 
and  between  these  two  was  the  place  where 
those  sentenced  to  death  were  hanged.  The 
boys  knew  when  an  execution  was  to  take 
place,  and  we  used  to  talk  it  over  among  our- 
selves. One  man  was  hanged  while  I  was 
there  ;  and  if  anybody  thinks  that  knowledge 
of  such  things  helps  to  make  boys  seek  the 
path  of  virtue,  let  him  go  forth  into  the  world 
and  learn  something  about  human  nature. 

On  my  arrival  in  the  Tombs,  Mrs.  Hill,  the 
matron,  had  me  searched  for  tobacco,  knives 
or  matches,  all  of  which  were  contraband ; 
then  I  was  given  a  bath  and  sent  into  the 
corridor  of  the  cells  where  there  were  about 
twenty-five  other  boys,  confined  for  various 
crimes,  ranging  from  petty  larceny  to  offenses 
of  the  gravest  kind.  On  the  second  day  I  met 
two  young  "  dips  "  and  we  exchanged  our  expe- 
riences in  the  world  of  graft.  I  received  my 
first  lesson  in  the  art  of  "  banging  a  super," 
[45] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

that  is,  stealing  a  watch  by  breaking  the  ring 
wim  the  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  thus 
detaching  it  from  the  chain.  They  were  two 
of  the  best  of  the  Sixth  Ward  pickpockets,  and 
we  made  a  date  to  meet  '*  on  the  outside." 
Indeed,  it  was  not  many  weeks  after  my  release 
before  I  could  "  bang  a  super,"  or  get  a  man's 
"  front  "  (watch  and  chain)  as  easily  as  I  could 
relieve  a  Moll  of  her  "  leather". 

As  I  look  back  upon  the  food  these  young 
boys  received  in  the  tombs,  it  seems  to  me  of 
the  worst.  Breakfast  consisted  of  a  chunk  of 
poor  bread  and  a  cup  of  coffee  made  of  burnt 
bread  crust.  At  dinner  we  had  soup  (they 
said,  at  least,  there  was  meat  in  it),  bread  and 
water ;  and  supper  was  the  same  as  breakfast. 
But  we  had  one  consolation.  When  we  went 
to  divine  service  we  generally  returned  happy  ; 
not  because  of  what  the  good  priest  said,  but 
because  we  were  almost  sure  of  getting  tobacco 
from  the  women  inmates. 

Certainly  the  Gerry  Society  has  its  faults  ; 
but  since  its  organization  young  boys  who 
have  gone  wrong  but  are  not  yet  entirely 
hardened,  have  a  much  better  show  to  become 
good  citizens  than  they  used  to  have.  That 
Society  did  not  exist  in  my  day  ;  but  I  know 
[46] 


My  First  Fall. 

a  good  deal  about  it,  and  I  am  convinced  tl]at 
it  does  a  world  of  good  ;  for,  at  least,  when 
it  takes  children  into  its  charge  it  does  not 
surround  them  with  an  atmosphere  of  social 
crime. 

While  in  the  Tombs  I  experienced  my  first 
disillusionment  as  to  the  honor  of  thieves.  I 
was  an  impulsive,  imaginative  boy,  and  that  a 
pal  could  go  back  on  me  never  seemed  possible. 
Many  of  my  subsequent  misfortunes  were  due 
to  the  treachery  of  my  companions.  I  have 
learned  to  distrust  everybody,  but  as  a  boy  of 
fifteen  I  was  green,  and  so  the  treachery  I 
shall  relate  left  a  sore  spot  in  my  soul. 

It  happened  this  way.  On  a  May  day, 
about  two  months  before  I  was  arrested,  two 
other  boys  and  I  had  entered  the  basement  of 
a  house  where  the  people  were  moving,  had 
made  away  with  some  silverware,  and  sold  it 
to  a  Christian  woman  in  the  neighborhood  for 
one  twentieth  of  its  value.  When  I  had  nearly 
served  my  ten  days'  sentence  for  assault,  my 
two  pals  were  arrested  and  "  squealed  "  on  me. 
I  was  confronted  with  them  in  the  Tombs. 
At  first  I  was  mighty  glad  to  see  them,  but 
when  I  found  they  had  "squealed,"  I  set  my 
teeth  and  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  "  touch." 
[47] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

I  protested  my  innocence  so  violently  that  the 
police  thought  the  other  boys  were  merely 
seeking  a  scape-goat.  They  got  twenty  days 
and  my  term  expired  forty-eight  hours  after- 
wards. The  silverware  I  stole  that  May 
morning  is  now  an  heirloom  in  the  family  of 
the  Christian  woman  to  whom  I  sold  it  so 
cheap. 

If  I  had  always  been  as  earnest  a  liar  as  I 
was  on  that  occasion  in  the  Tombs  I  might 
never  have  gone  to  "stir"  (penitentiary)  ;  but 
I  grew  more  indifferent  and  desperate  as  time 
went  on ;  and,  in  a  way,  more  honest,  more 
sincerely  a  criminal :  I  hardly  felt  like  denying 
it.  I  know  some  thieves  who,  although  they 
have  grafted  for  twenty-five  years,  have  not 
yet  "  done  time "  ;  some  of  them  escaped 
because  they  knew  how  to  throw  the  innocent 
"  con "  so  well.  Take  Tim,  for  instance. 
Tim  and  I  grafted  together  as  boys.  He  was 
not  a  very  skilful  pickpocket,  and  he  often 
was  on  the  point  of  arrest ;  but  he  had  a  talent 
for  innocence,  and  the  indignation  act  he 
would  put  up  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone. 
He  has,  consequently,  never  been  in  stir,  while 
I,  a  much  better  thief,  have  spent  half  of  my 
adult  life  there.  That  was  partly  because  I 
[48] 


My  First  Fall. 

felt,  when  I  had  once  made  a  touch,  that  the 
property  belonged  to  me.  On  one  occasion  I 
had  robbed  a  "  bloke  "  of  his  "  red  super " 
(gold  watch),  and  made  away  with  it  all  right, 
when  I  carelessly  dropped  it  on  the  sidewalk. 
A  crowd  had  gathered  about,  and  no  man 
really  in  his  right  mind,  would  have  picked  up 
that  super.  But  I  did  it,  and  was  nailed  dead 
to  rights  by  a  *'  cop."  Some  time  afterwards 
a  pal  asked  me  why  the  deuce  I  had  been  so 
foolish.  "  Didn't  the  super  belong  to  me,"  I 
replied,  indignantly.  "Hadn't  I  earned  it?" 
I  was  too  honest  a  thief.  That  was  one  of 
my  weaknesses. 


[49] 


CHAPTER  III. 

Mixed-Ale  Life  in  the  Fourth  and  Seventh  Wards. 

For  a  time — a  short  time — after  I  left  the 
Tombs  I  was  quiet.  My  relatives  threw  the 
gallows  '*  con  "  into  me  hard,  but  at  that  time 
I  was  proof  against  any  arguments  they  could 
muster.  They  were  not  able  to  show  me  any- 
thing that  was  worth  while ;  they  could  not 
deliver  the  goods,  so  what  was  the  use  of 
talking  ? 

Although  I  was  a  disgrace  at  home,  I  was 
high  cock-a-lorum  among  the  boys  in  the 
neighborhood.  They  began  to  look  up  to  me, 
as  I  had  looked  up  to  the  grafters  at  the  cor- 
ner saloon.  They  admired  me  because  I  was 
a  fighter  and  had  "done  time."  I  went  up  in 
their  estimation  because  I  had  suffered  in  the 
good  cause.  And  I  began  to  get  introduc- 
tions to  the  older  grafters  in  the  seventh  ward 
— grafters  with  diamond  pins  and  silk  hats.  It 
was  not  long  before  I  was  at  it  harder  than 
ever,  uptown  and  downtown.  I  not  only  con- 
tinued my  trade  as  Moll-buzzer,  but  began  to 
[50] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

spread  myself,  got  to  be  quite  an  adept  in 
touching  men  for  vests  and  supers  and  fronts ; 
and  every  now  and  then  "shoved  the  queer" 
or  worked  a  little  game  of  swindling.  Our 
stamping-ground  for  supers  and  vests  at  that 
time  was  Fulton,  Nassau,  Lower  Broadway 
and  Wall  Streets,  and  we  covered  our  terri- 
tory well.  I  used  to  work  alone  considerably. 
I  would  board  a  car  with  a  couple  of  news- 
papers, would  say,  "  News,  boss  ? "  to  some 
man  sitting  down,  would  shove  the  paper  in 
front  of  his  face  as  a  stall,  and  then  pick  his 
super  or  even  his  entire  "  front "  (watch  and 
chain).  If  you  will  stand  for  a  newspaper 
under  your  chin  I  can  get  even  your  socks. 
Many  is  the  "  gent  "  I  have  left  in  the  car  with 
his  vest  entirely  unbuttoned  and  his  "front" 
gone.  When  I  couldn't  get  the  chain,  I  would 
snap  the  ring  of  the  watch  with  my  thumb  and 
fore-finger,  giving  the  thief's  cough  to  drown 
the  slight  noise  made  by  the  breaking  ring, 
and  get  away  with  the  watch,  leaving  the 
chain  dangling.  Instead  of  a  newspaper,  I 
would  often  use  an  overcoat  as  a  stall. 

It  was  only  when  I  was  on  the  "  hurry-up," 
however,  that    I    worked   alone.     It   is  more 
dangerous  than  working  with  a  mob,  but  if  I 
[51] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

needed  a  dollar  quick  I'd  take  any  risk.  I'd 
jump  on  a  car,  and  tackle  the  first  sucker  I 
saw.  If  I  thought  it  was  not  diplomatic  to 
try  for  the  "front,"  and  if  there  was  no  stone 
in  sight,  I'd  content  myself  with  the  **  clock  " 
(watch).  But  it  was  safer  and  more  sociable 
to  work  with  other  guys.  We  usually  went  in 
mobs  of  three  or  four,  and  our  methods  were 
much  more  complicated  than  when  we  were 
simply  moll-buzzing.  Each  thief  had  his 
special  part  to  play,  and  his  duty  varied  with 
the  position  of  the  sucker  and  the  pocket  the 
*'  leather  "  was  in.  If  the  sucker  was  standing 
in  the  car,  my  stall  would  frequently  stand 
right  in  front,  facing  him,  while  I  would  put 
my  hand  under  the  stall's  arm  and  pick  the 
sucker's  leather  or  super.  The  other  stalls 
would  be  distracting  the  attention  of  the 
sucker,  or  looking  out  for  possible  interrup- 
tions. When  I  had  got  possession  of  the 
leather  I  would  pass  it  quickly  to  the  stall 
behind  me,  and  he  would  "  vamoose."  Some- 
times I  would  back  up  to  the  victim,  put  my 
hand  behind  me,  break  his  ring  and  pick  the 
super,  or  I  would  face  his  back,  reach  round, 
unbutton  his  vest  while  a  pal  stalled  in  front 
with  a  newspaper,  a  bunch  of  flowers,  a  fan, 
[52] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

or  an  overcoat,  and  get  away  with  his  entire 
front. 

A  dip,  as  I  have  said,  pays  special  attention 
to  his  personal  appearance ;  it  is  his  stock  in 
trade  ;  but  when  I  began  to  meet  boys  who 
had  risen  above  the  grade  of  Moll-buzzers,  I 
found  that  the  dip,  as  opposed  to  other  graft- 
ers, had  many  other  advantages,  too.  He 
combines  pleasure  and  instruction  with  busi- 
ness, for  he  goes  to  the  foot-ball  games,  the 
New  London  races,  to  swell  theatres  where 
the  graft  is  good,  and  to  lectures.  I  have 
often  listened  to  Bob  Ingersoll,  the  greatest 
orator,  in  my  opinion,  that  ever  lived.  I 
enjoyed  his  talk  so  much  that  I  sometimes 
forgot  to  graft.  But  as  a  general  rule,  I  was 
able  to  combine  Instruction  with  business.  I 
very  seldom  dropped  a  red  super  because  of 
an  oratorical  flourish ;  but  the  supers  did  not 
come  my  way  all  the  time,  I  had  some  wait- 
ing to  do,  and  in  the  meantime  I  improved 
my  mind.  Then  a  dip  travels,  too,  more  than 
most  grafters ;  he  jumps  out  to  fairs  and  large 
gatherings  of  all  descriptions,  and  grows  to  be 
a  man  of  the  world.  When  in  the  city  he 
visits  the  best  dance  halls,  and  is  popular 
because  of  his  good  clothes,  his  dough,  and 
[53] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

his  general  information,  with  men  as  well  as 
women.  He  generally  lives  with  a  Moll  who 
has  seen  the  world,  and  who  can  add  to  his 
fund  of  information.  I  know  a  dip  who  could 
not  read  or  write  until  he  met  a  Moll,  who 
gave  him  a  general  education  and  taught  him 
to  avoid  things  that  interfered  with  his  line 
of  graft ;  she  also  took  care  of  his  personal 
appearance,  and  equipped  him  generally  for  an 
A  No.  I  pickpocket.  Women  are  much  the 
same,  I  believe,  in  every  rank  of  life. 

It  was  at  this  time,  when  I  was  a  kid  of 
fifteen,  that  I  first  met  Sheenie  Annie,  who 
was  a  famous  shop-lifter.  She  was  twenty- 
one  years  old,  and  used  to  give  me  good 
advice.  **  Keep  away  from  heavy  workers," 
(burglars)  she  would  say  ;  "there  is  a  big  bit 
in  that."  She  had  lived  in  Graftdom  ever 
since  she  was  a  tid-bit,  and  she  knew  what  she 
was  talking  about.  I  did  not  work  with  her 
until  several  years  later,  but  I  might  as  well 
tell  her  sad  story  now.  I  may  say,  as  a  kind 
of  preface,  that  I  have  always  liked  the  girl 
grafter  who  could  take  care  of  herself  instead 
of  sucking  the  blood  out  of  some  man.  When 
I  find  a  little  working  girl  who  has  no  other 
ambition  than  to  get  a  little  home  together, 
[54] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

with  a  little  knick-knack  on  the  wall,  a  little 
husband  and  a  little  child,  I  don't  care  for  her. 
She  is  a  nonentity.  But  such  was  not  Sheenie 
Annie,  who  was  a  bright,  intelligent,  ambitious, 
girl ;  when  she  liked  a  fellow  she  would  do 
anything  for  him,  but  otherwise  she  wouldn't 
let  a  man  come  near  her. 

The  little  Jewish  lassie,  named  Annie,  was 
born  in  the  toughest  part  of  New  York. 
Later  on,  as  she  advanced  in  years  and  became 
an  expert  pilferer,  she  was  given  the  nickname 
of  "  Sheenie."  She  was  brought  up  on  the 
street,  surrounded  by  thieves  and  prostitutes. 
Her  only  education  was  what  she  received 
during  a  year  or  two  in  the  public  school. 
She  lived  near  Grand  Street,  then  a  popular 
shopping  district.  As  a  very  little  girl  she  and 
a  friend  used  to  visit  the  drygoods  stores  and 
steal  any  little  notion  they  could.  There  was 
a  crowd  of  young  pickpockets  in  her  street, 
and  she  soon  got  on  to  this  graft,  and  became 
so  skilful  at  it  that  older  guns  of  both  sexes 
were  eagfer  to  take  her  under  their  tuition  and 
finish  her  education.  The  first  time  I  met 
her  was  in  a  well-known  dance-hall — Billy 
McGlory's — and  we  became  friends  at  once, 
for  she  was  a  good  girl  and  full  of  mischief. 
[55] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

She  was  not  pretty,  exactly,  but  she  was  pass- 
able. She  was  small,  with  thick  lips,  plump, 
had  good  teeth  and  eyes  as  fine  and  piercing 
as  any  I  ever  saw  in  man  or  woman.  She 
dressed  well  and  was  a  good  talker,  as  nimble- 
witted  and  as  good  a  judge  of  human  nature 
as  I  ever  met  in  her  sex. 

Sheenie  Annie's  graft  broadened,  and  from 
dipping  and  small  shop-lifting  she  rose  to  a 
position  where  she  doubled  up  with  a  mob  of 
clever  hotel  workers,  and  made  large  amounts 
of  money.  Here  was  a  girl  from  the  lowest 
stratum  of  life,  not  pretty  or  well  shaped,  but 
whom  men  admired  because  of  her  wit  and 
cleverness.  A  big  contractor  in  Philadelphia 
was  her  friend  for  years.  I  have  seen  letters 
from  him  offering  to  marry  her.  But  she  had 
something  better. 

For  she  was  an  artist  at  "penny-weighting" 
and  "  hoisting."  The  police  admitted  that  she 
was  unusually  clever  at  these  two  grafts,  and 
they  treated  her  with  every  consideration. 
Penny-weighting  is  a  very  "  slick  "  graft.  It 
is  generally  worked  in  pairs,  by  either  sex  or 
both  sexes.  A  man,  for  instance,  enters  a 
jewelry  store  and  looks  at  some  diamond  rings 
on  a  tray.  He  prices  them  and  notes  the 
[56] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

costly  ones.  Then  he  goes  to  a  fauny  shop 
(imitation  jewelry)  and  buys  a  few  diamonds 
which  match  the  real  ones  he  has  noted.  Then 
he  and  his  pal,  usually  a  woman,  enter  the 
jewelry  store  and  ask  to  see  the  rings. 
Through  some  little  "  con  "  they  distract  the 
jeweler's  attention,  and  then  one  of  them  (and 
at  this  Sheenie  Annie  was  particularly  good) 
substitutes  the  bogus  diamonds  for  the  good 
ones ;  and  leaves  the  store  without  making  a 
purchase. 

I  can  give  an  example  of  how  Sheenie  Annie 
"hoisted,"  from  my  own  experience  with  her. 
On  one  occasion,  when  I  was  about  eighteen 
years  old,  Sheenie  and  I  were  on  a  racket  to- 
gether. We  had  been  '*  going  it "  for  several 
days  and  needed  some  dough.  We  went  into 
a  large  tailoring  establishment,  where  I  tried 
on  some  clothes,  as  a  stall.  Nothing  suited 
me. — I  took  good  care  of  that — but  in  the 
meantime  Annie  had  taken  two  costly  over- 
coats, folded  them  into  flat  bundles,  and,  rais- 
ing her  skirt  quickly,  had  hidden  the  overcoats 
between  her  legs.  We  left  the  store  together. 
She  walked  so  straight  that  I  thought  she  had 
got  nothing,  but  when  we  entered  a  saloon  a 
block  away,  and  the  swag  was  produced,  I  was 
[57] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

forced  to  laugh.     We  "  fenced  "  the  overcoats 
and  with  the  proceeds  continued  our  spree. 

Once  Sheenie  **  fell "  at  this  line  of  graft. 
She  had  stolen  some  costly  sealskins  from  a 
well-known  furrier,  and  had  got  away  with 
them.  But  on  her  third  visit  to  the  place  she 
came  to  grief.  She  was  going  out  with  a  seal- 
skin coat  under  her  skirt  when  the  office-boy, 
who  was  skylarking  about,  ran  into  her,  and 
upset  her.  When  the  salesman,  who  had 
gone  to  her  rescue,  lifted  her  up,  she  lost  her 
grip  on  the  sealskin  sacque,  and  it  fell  to  the 
floor.  It  was  a  "  blow,"  of  course,  and  she 
got  nailed,  but  as  she  had  plenty  of  fall-money, 
and  a  well-known  politician  dead  to  rights,  she 
only  got  nine  months  in  the  penitentiary. 

Sheenie  Annie  was  such  a  good  shop-lifter 
that,  with  only  an  umbrella  as  a  stall,  she 
could  make  more  money  in  a  week  than  a  poor 
needle-woman  could  earn  in  months.  But 
she  did  not  care  for  the  money.  She  was  a 
good  fellow,  and  was  in  for  fun.  She  was 
"  wise,"  too,  and  I  liked  to  talk  to  her,  for  she 
understood  what  I  said,  and  was  up  to  snuff, 
which  was  very  piquant  to  me.  She  had  done 
most  of  the  grafts  that  I  had  done  myself,  and 
her  tips  were  always  valuable. 
[58] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

To  show  what  a  good  fellow  she  was,  her 
sweetheart,  Jack,  and  another  burglar  named 
Jerry  were  doing  night  work  once,  when  they 
were  unlucky  enough  to  be  nailed.  Sheenie 
Annie  went  on  the  stand  and  swore  perjury 
in  order  to  save  Jack.  He  got  a  year,  but 
Jerry,  who  had  committed  the  same  crime,  got 
six.  While  he  was  in  prison  Annie  visited 
him  and  put  up  a  plan  by  which  he  escaped, 
but  he  would  not  leave  New  York  with  her, 
and  was  caught  and  returned  to  "  stir."  Annie 
herself  fell  in  half  a  dozen  cities,  but  never 
received  more  than  a  few  months.  After  I 
was  released  from  serving  my  second  bit  in 
the  "pen,"  I  heard  Annie  had  died  insane.  An 
old  girl  pal  of  hers  told  me  that  she  had  died  a 
horrible  death,  and  that  her  last  words  were 
about  her  old  friends  and  companions.  Her 
disease  was  that  which  attacks  only  people 
with  brains.     She  died  of  paresis. 

Two  other  girls  whom  I  knew  when  I  was 
fifteen  turned  out  to  be  famous  shop-lifters — 
Big  Lena  and  Blonde  Mamie,  who  afterwards 
married  Tommy,  the  famous  cracksman.  They 
began  to  graft  when  they  were  about  fourteen, 
and  Mamie  and  I  used  to  work  together.  I 
was  Mamie's  first  **  fellow,"  and  we  had  royal 
[59] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

good  times  together.  Lena,  poor  girl,  is  now 
doing  five  years  in  London,  but  she  was  one 
of  the  most  cheerful  Molls  I  ever  knew.  I 
met  her  and  Mamie  for  the  first  time  one  day 
as  they  were  coming  out  of  an  oyster  house 
on  Grand  Street.  I  thought  they  were  good- 
looking  tid-bits,  and  took  them  to  a  picnic. 
We  were  so  late  that  instead  of  going  home 
Mamie  and  I  spent  the  night  at  the  house  of 
Lena's  sister,  whose  husband  was  a  receiver  of 
stolen  goods,  or  "fence,"  as  it  is  popularly 
called.  In  the  morning  Lena,  Mamie  and  I 
made  our  first  "  touch  "  together.  We  got  a 
few  "books"  uptown,  and  Mamie  banged  a 
satchel  at  Stern's.  After  that  we  often  jumped 
out  together,  and  took  in  the  excursions. 
Sometimes  Mamie  or  Lena  would  dip  and  I 
would  stall,  but  more  frequently  I  was  the 
pick.  We  used  to  turn  our  swag  over  to 
Lena's  sister's  husband.  Max,  who  would  give 
us  about  one-sixth  of  its  value. 

These  three  girls  certainly  were  a  crack-a- 
jack  trio.  You  can't  find  their  likes  nowadays. 
Even  in  my  time  most  of  the  girls  I  knew  did 
not  amount  to  anything.  They  generally  mar- 
ried, or  did  worse.  There  were  few  legitimate 
grafters  among  them.  Since  I  have  been 
[60] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

back  this  time  I  have  seen  a  great  many  of 
the  old  picks  and  night-workers  I  used  to 
know.  They  tell  the  same  story.  There  are 
no  Molls  now  who  can  compare  with  Big 
Lena,  Blonde  Mamie,  and  Sheenie  Annie. 
Times  are  bad,  anyway. 

After  my  experience  in  the  Tombs  I  rose 
very  rapidly  in  the  world  of  graft,  and  dis- 
tanced my  old  companions.  Zack,  the  lad 
with  whom  I  had  touched  my  first  Moll,  soon 
seemed  very  tame  to  me.  I  fell  away  from 
him  because  he  continued  to  eat  bolivers 
(cookies),  patronize  the  free  baths,  and  stole 
horse-blankets  and  other  trivial  things  when 
he  could  not  get  "leathers."  He  was  not  fast 
enough  for  me.  Zack  "got  there,"  neverthe- 
less, and  for  little,  or  nothing,  for  several 
years  later  I  met  him  in  State's  prison.  He 
told  me  he  was  going  to  Colorado  on  his 
release.  I  again  met  him  in  prison  on  my 
second  bit.  He  was  then  going  to  Chicago. 
On  my  third  hit  I  ran  up  against  the  same  old 
jail-bird,  but  this  time  his  destination  was 
Boston.     To-day  he  is  still  in  prison. 

As  I  fell  away  from  the  softies  I  naturally 
joined  hands  with  more  ambitious  grafters, 
and  with  those  with  brains  and  with  good  con- 
[6i] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

nections  in  the  upper  world.  As  a  lad  of 
from  fifteen  to  eighteen  I  associated  with 
several  boys  who  are  now  famous  politicians 
in  this  city,  and  "  on  the  level,"  as  that  phrase 
is  usually  meant.  Jack  Lawrence  was  a  well- 
educated  boy,  and  high  up  as  far  as  his  family 
was  concerned.  His  father  and  brothers  held 
good  political  positions,  and  it  was  only  a 
taste  for  booze  and  for  less  genteel  grafting 
that  held  Jack  back.  As  a  boy  of  sixteen  or 
seventeen  he  was  the  trusted  messenger  of  a 
well-known  Republican  politician,  named  J.  I. 
D.     One   of   Jack's   pals   became   a    Federal 

Judge,    and  another,    Mr.    D ,  who  was 

never  a  grafter,  is  at  present  a  city  magistrate 
in  New  York. 

While  Jack  was  working  for  J.  I.  D.,  the 
politician,  he  was  arrested  several  times.  Once 
he  abstracted  a  large  amount  of  money  from 
the  vest  pocket  of  a  broker  as  he  was  standing 
by  the  old  Herald  building.  He  was  nailed, 
and  sent  word  to  his  employer,  the  politician, 
who  went  to  police  headquarters,  highly  in- 
dignant at  the  arrest  of  his  trusted  messenger. 
He  easily  convinced  the  broker  and  the  magis- 
trate that  Jack  was  innocent ;  and  as  far  as 
the  Republican  politician's  business  was  con- 
[62] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

cerned,  Jack  was  honest,  for  J.  I.  D.  trusted 
him,  and  Jack  never  deceived  him.  There 
are  some  thieves  who  will  not  "touch  "  those 
who  place  confidence  in  them,  and  Jack  was 
one  of  them. 

After  he  was  released,  the  following  con- 
versation, which  Jack  related  to  me,  took 
place  between  him  and  the  politician,  in  the 
latter's  office. 

"How  was  it?"  the  Big  One  said,  "that 
you  happened  to  get  your  fingers  into  that 
man's  pocket  ?  " 

Jack  gave  the  "innocent  con." 

"  None  of  that,"  said  J.  I.  D.,  who  was  a 
wise  guy,  "  I  know  you  have  a  habit  of  taking 
small  change  from  strangers'  pockets." 

Jack  then  came  off  his  perch  and  gave  his 
patron  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  throwing  the  mit 
(dipping).  At  this  the  politician  grinned,  and 
remarked  :  "You  will  either  become  a  reputa- 
ble politician,  for  you  have  the  requisite  char- 
acter, or  you  will  die  young." 

Jack  was  feared,  hated  and  envied  by  the 
other  young  fellows  in  J.  I.  D.'s  office,  for  as 
he  was  such  a  thorough  rascal,  he  was  a  great 
favorite  with  those  high  up.  But  he  never 
got  J.  I.  D.'s  full  confidence  until  after  he  was 
[63] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

tested  in  the  following  way.  One  day  the 
politician  put  his  gold  watch  on  a  table  in  his 
office.  Jack  saw  it,  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in 
the  Big  One's  drawer.  The  latter  entered  the 
room,  saw  that  the  watch  was  gone,  and  said  : 
**  I  forgot  my  watch.  I  must  have  left  it 
home." 

"  No,"  said  Jack,  "  you  left  it  on  the  table, 
and  I  put  it  in  your  desk."  A  smile  spread 
over  the  patron's  face. 

"  Jack,  I  can  trust  you.  I  put  it  there 
just  to  test  your  honesty." 

The  boy  hesitated  a  moment,  then,  looking 
into  the  man's  face,  replied ;  '*  I  know  right 
well  you  did,  for  you  are  a  wise  guy." 

After  that  J.  I.  D.  trusted  Jack  even  with 
his  love  affairs. 

As  Jack  advanced  in  life  he  became  an 
expert  *'  gun,"  and  was  often  nailed,  and  fre- 
quently brought  before  Magistrate  D ,  his 

old  friend.  He  always  got  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt.  One  day  he  was  arraigned  before  the 
magistrate,  who  asked  the  flyman  the  nature  of 
the  complaint.  It  was  the  same  as  usual — dip- 
ping. Jack,  of  course,  was  indignant  at  such 
an  awful  accusation,  but  the  magistrate  told 
him  to  keep  still,  and,  turning  to  the  police- 
[64] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

man,  asked  the  culprit's  name.  When  the 
copper  told  him,  the  magistrate  exclaimed : 

**  Why,  that  is  not  his  name.     I  knew  him 

twenty  years  ago,  and  he  was  a  d rascal 

then ;  but  that  was  not  his  name." 

Jack  was  shocked  at  such  language  from 
the  bench,  and  swore  with  such  vehemence 
that  he  was  innocent,  that  he  again  got  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt,  and  was  discharged,  and 
this  time  justly,  for  he  had  not  made  this  par- 
ticular "touch."  He  was  hounded  by  a  cop- 
per looking  for  a  reputation.  Jack,  when  he 
was  set  free,  turned  to  the  magistrate,  and 
said  :  "Your  honor,  I  thank  you,  but  you  only 
did  your  duty  to  an  innocent  man."  The 
magistrate  had  a  good  laugh,  and  remarked : 
"  Jack,  I  wouldn't  believe  you  if  you  swore  on 
a  stack  of  Bibles." 

A  curious  trait  in  a  professional  grafter  is 
that,  if  he  is  "  pinched  "  for  something  he  did 
not  do,  although  he  has  done  a  hundred  other 
things  for  which  he  has  never  been  pinched, 
he  will  put  up  such  a  wail  against  the  abom- 
inable injustice  that  an  honest  man  accused  of 
the  same  offense  would  seem  guilty  in  com- 
parison. The  honest  man,  even  if  he  had  the 
ability  of  a  Philadelphia  lawyer,  could  not  do 
[65] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

the  strong  indignation  act  that  is  characteristic 
of  the  unjustly  accused  grafter.  Old  thieves 
guilty  of  a  thousand  crimes  will  nourish 
revenge  for  years  against  the  copper  or  judge 
who  sends  them  up  to  "  stir"  on  a  false  accusa- 
tion. 

When  I  was  from  fifteen  to  seventeen  years 
old,  I  met  the  man  who,  some  think,  is  now 
practically  leader  of  Tammany  Hall.  I  will 
call  him  Senator  Wet  Coin.  At  that  time  he 
was  a  boy  eighteen  or  nineteen  and  strictly  on 
the  level.  He  knew  all  the  grafters  well,  but 
kept  off  the  Rocky  Path  himself.  In  those 
days  he  "hung  out"  in  an  oyster  shanty  and 
ran  a  paper  stand.  It  is  said  he  materially 
assisted  Mr.  Pulitzer  in  making  a  success  of 
the  Worlds  when  that  paper  was  started.  He 
never  drank,  in  spite  of  the  name  I  have  given 
him.  In  fact,  he  derived  his  real  nickname 
from  his  habit  of  abstinence.  He  was  the 
friend  of  a  Bowery  girl  who  is  now  a  well- 
known  actress.  She,  too,  was  always  on  the 
level  in  every  way  ;  although  her  brother  was 
a  grafter  ;  this  case,  and  that  of  Senator  Wet 
Coin  prove  that  even  in  an  environment  of 
thieves  it  is  possible  to  tread  the  path  of  vir- 
tue. Wet  Coin  would  not  even  buy  a  stolen 
[66] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

article  ;  and  his  reward  was  great.  He  became 
captain  of  his  election  district,  ran  for  assem- 
blyman, was  elected,  and  got  as  high  a  posi- 
tion, with  the  exception  of  that  of  Governor, 
as  is  possible  in  the  State ;  while  in  the  city, 
probably  no  man  is  more  powerful. 

Senator  Wet  Coin  made  no  pretensions  to 
virtue ;  he  never  claimed  to  be  better  than 
others.  But  in  spite  of  the  accusations  against 
him,  he  has  done  far  more  for  the  public  good 
than  all  the  professional  reformers,  religious 
and  other.  He  took  many  noted  and  profes- 
sional criminals  in  the  prime  of  their  success, 
gave  them  positions  and  by  his  influence  kept 
them  honest  ever  since.  Some  of  them  are 
high  up,  even  run  gin-mills  to-day.  I  met  one 
of  them  after  my  second  bit,  who  used  to  make 
his  thousands.  Now  he  has  a  salary  of  eigh- 
teen dollars  a  week  and  is  contented.  I  had 
known  him  in  the  old  days,  and  he  asked : 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  The  same  old  thing,"  I  admitted.  "  What 
are  you  up  to  ?  " 

"  I  have  squared  it,  Jim,"  he  replied  earn- 
estly. "  There's  nothing  in  the  graft.  Why 
don't  you  go  to  sea  ?  " 

'*  I'd  as  lief  go  to  stir,"  I  replied. 
[67] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

We  had  a  couple  of  beers  and  a  long  talk, 
and  this  is  the  way  he  gave  it  to  me  : 

**  I  never  thought  I  could  live  on  eighteen 
dollars  a  week.  I  have  to  work  hard  but  I 
save  more  money  than  I  did  when  I  was  mak- 
ing hundreds  a  week  ;  for  when  it  comes  hard, 
it  does  not  go  easy.  I  look  twice  at  my  earnings 
before  I  part  with  them.  I  live  quietly  with  my 
sister  and  am  happy.  There's  nothing  in  the 
other  thing,  Jim.  Look  at  Hope.  Look  at 
Dan  Noble.  Look  at  all  the  other  noted  graf- 
ters who  stole  millions  and  now  are  willing  to 
throw  the  brotherly  hand  for  a  small  borrow. 
If  I  had  the  chance  to  make  thousands  to-mor- 
row in  the  under  world,  I  would  not  chance 
it.  I  am  happy.  Better  still,  I  am  contented. 
Only  for  Mr.  Wet  Coin  I'd  be  splitting  matches 
in  the  stir  these  many  years.  Show  me  the 
reformer  who  has  done  as  much  for  friends 
and  the  public  as  Wet  Coin." 

A  "  touch "  that  pleased  me  mightily  as  a 
kid  was  made  just  before  my  second  fall. 
Superintendent  Walling  had  returned  from  a 
summer  resort,  and  found  that  a  mob  of 
"  knucks  "  (  another  name  for  pick-pockets  ) 
had  been  *'  tearing  open  "  the  Third  Avenue 
[68] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

cars  outside  of  the  Post  Office.  About  fifty 
complaints  had  been  coming  in  every  day  for 
several  weeks  ;  and  the  Superintendent  thought 
he  would  make  a  personal  investigation  and 
get  one  of  the  thieves  dead  to  rights.  He 
made  a  front  that  he  was  easy  and  went  down 
the  line.  He  did  not  catch  any  dips,  but  when 
he  reached  police  head-quarters  he  was  minus 
his  gold  watch  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
in  money.  The  story  leaked  out,  and  Super- 
intendent Walling  was  unhappy.  There  would 
never  have  been  a  come-back  for  this  "touch  " 
if  an  old  gun,  who  had  just  been  nailed,  had 
not  "squealed"  as  to  who  touched  the  boss. 
"  Little  Mick"  had  done  it,  and  the  result  was 
that  he  got  his  first  experience  in  the  House  of 
Refuge. 

It  was  only  a  short  time  after  Little  Mick's 
fall  that  it  came  my  turn  to  go  to  the  House 
of  Refuge.  I  had  grown  tougher  and  much 
stuck  on  myself  and  was  taking  bigger  risks. 
I  certainly  had  a  swelled  head  in  those  days. 
I  was  seventeen  years  old  at    the  time,   and 

was  grafting  with  Jack  T ,  who  is  now  in 

Byrnes's  book,  and  one  of  the  swellest  "Peter  " 

men  (safe-blowers)  in  the  profession.     Jack  and 

I,  along  with  another  pal,  Joe  Quigley,  got  a 

[69] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

duffer,  an  Englishman,  for  his  "  front,"  on 
Grand  Street,  near  Broadway.  It  was  a 
"  blow,"  and  I,  who  was  the  "  wire,"  got 
nailed.  If  I  had  not  given  my  age  as  fifteen 
I  should  have  been  sent  to  the  penitentiary. 
As  it  was  I  went  to  the  House  of  Refuge  for 
a  year.  Joe  Quigley  slipped  up  on  the  same 
game.  He  was  twenty,  but  gave  his  age  as 
fifteen.  He  had  had  a  good  shave  by  the 
Tombs  barber,  there  was  a  false  date  of  birth 
written  in  his  Aunt's  Bible,  which  was  pro- 
duced in  court  by  his  lawyer,  and  he  would 
probably  have  gone  with  me  to  the  House  of 
Refuge,  had  not  a  Central  Office  man  who 
knew  him,  happened  in ;  Joe  was  settled  for 
four  years  in  Sing  Sing. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  House  of  Refuge, 
my  pedigree  was  taken  and  my  hair  clipped. 
Then  I  went  into  the  yard,  looked  down  the 
line  of  boys  on  parade  and  saw  about  forty 
young  grafters  whom  I  knew.  One  of  them 
is  now  a  policeman  in  New  York  City,  and, 
moreover,  on  the  level.  Some  others,  too, 
but  not  many,  who  were  then  in  the  House  of 
Refuge,  are  now  honest.  Several  are  running 
big  saloons  and  are  captains  of  their  election 
districts,  or  even  higher  up.  These  men  are 
[70] 


Mixed-Ale  Life. 

exceptions,  however,  for  certainly  the  House 
of  Refuge  was  a  school  for  crime.  Unspeak- 
ably bad  habits  were  contracted  there.  The 
older  boys  wrecked  the  younger  ones,  who, 
comparatively  innocent,  confined  for  the  crime 
of  being  orphans,  came  in  contact  with  others 
entirely  hardened.  The  day  time  was  spent 
in  the  school  and  the  shop,  but  there  was  an 
hour  or  two  for  play,  and  the  boys  would 
arrange  to  meet  for  mischief  in  the  basement. 

Severe  punishments  were  given  to  lads  of 
fifteen,  and  their  tasks  were  harder  than  those 
inflicted  in  State's  prison.  We  had  to  make 
twenty-four  pairs  of  overalls  every  day  ;  and  if 
we  did  not  do  our  work  we  were  beaten  on  an 
unprotected  and  tender  spot  until  we  promised 
to  do  our  task.  One  morning  I  was  made  to 
cross  my  hands,  and  was  given  fifteen  blows 
on  the  palms  with  a  heavy  rattan  stick.  The 
crime  I  had  committed  was  inattention.  The 
principal  had  been  preaching  about  the  Prodi- 
gal Son.  I,  having  heard  it  before,  paid  little 
heed ;  particularly  as  I  was  a  Catholic,  and  his 
teachings  did  not  count  for  me.  They  called 
me  a  "  Papist,"  and  beat  me,  as  I  described. 

I  say  without  hesitation  that  lads  sent  to 
an  institution  like  the  House  of  Refuge,  the 
[71] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

Catholic  Protectory,  or  the  Juvenile  Asylum, 
might  better  be  taken  out  and  shot.  They 
learn  things  there  they  could  not  learn  even  in 
the  streets.  The  newsboy's  life  is  pure  in 
comparison.  As  for  me,  I  grew  far  more  des- 
perate there  than  I  had  been  before :  and  I 
was  far  from  being  one  of  the  most  innocent 
of  boys.  Many  of  the  others  had  more  to 
learn  than  I  had,  and  they  learned  it.  But 
even  I,  hard  as  I  already  was,  acquired  much 
fresh  information  about  vice  and  crime ;  and 
gathered  in  more  pointers  about  the  technique 
of  graft. 


[72] 


CHAPTER  IV. 

When  the  Graft  Was  Good. 

I  STAYED  in  the  House  of  Refuge  until  I 
was  eighteen,  and  when  released,  went  through 
a  short  period  of  reform.  I  "  lasted,  "  I  think, 
nearly  three  weeks,  and  then  started  in  to 
graft  again  harder  than  ever.  The  old  itch 
for  excitement,  for  theatres,  balls  and  gam- 
bling, made  reform  impossible.  I  had  already- 
formed  strong  habits  and  desires  which  could 
not  be  satisfied  in  my  environment  without 
stealing.  I  was  rapidly  becoming  a  confirmed 
criminal.  I  began  to  do  "  house-work,  "  which 
was  mainly  sneak  work  up  town.  We  would 
catch  a  basement  open  in  the  day  time,  and 
rummage  for  silverware,  money  or  jewels. 
There  is  only  a  step  from  this  to  the  business 
of  the  genuine  burglar,  who  operates  in  the 
night  time,  and  whose  occupation  is  far  more 
dangerous  than  that  of  the  sneak  thief.  How- 
ever, at  this  intermediate  kind  of  graft,  our 
swag,  for  eighteen  months,  was  considerable. 
[73] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

One  of  our  methods  was  to  take  servant  girls 
to  balls  and  picnics  and  get  them  to  tip  us  off 
to  where  the  goods  were  and  the  best  way  to 
get  them.  Sometimes  they  were  guilty,  more 
often  merely  suckers. 

During  the  next  three  years,  at  the  expira- 
tion of  which  I  made  my  first  trip  to  Sing 
Sing,  I  stole  a  great  deal  of  money  and  lived 
very  high.  I  contracted  more  bad  habits, 
practically  ceased  to  see  my  family  at  all,  lived 
in  a  furnished  room  and  "  hung  out "  in  the 
evening  at  some  dance-hall,  such  as  Billy 
McGlory's  Old  Armory,  George  Doe's  or 
"  The  "  Allen's.  Sheenie  Annie  was  my  sweet- 
heart at  this  period,  and  after  we  had  made  a 
good  touch  what  times  we  would  have  at 
Coney  Island  or  at  Billy  McGlory's !  Satur- 
day nights  in  the  summer  time  a  mob  of  three 
or  four  of  us,  grafters  and  girls,  would  go  to 
the  island  and  stop  at  a  hotel  run  by  an  ex- 
gun.  At  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
we'd  all  leave  the  hotel,  with  nothing  on  but 
a  quilt,  and  go  in  swimming  together.  Shee- 
nie Annie,  Blonde  Mamie  and  Big  Lena  often 
went  with  us.  At  other  times  we  took  respect- 
able shop-girls,  or  even  women  who  belonged 
to  a  still  lower  class.  What  boy  with  an 
[74] 


When  the  Graft  Was  Good. 

ounce  of  thick  blood  in  his  body  could  refuse 
to  go  with  a  girl  to  the  Island  ? 

And  Billy  McGlory's  !  What  times  we  had 
there,  on  dear  old  Saturday  nights !  At  this 
place,  which  contained  a  bar-room,  dance-room, 
pool-room  and  a  piano,  congregated  down- 
town guns,  house-men  and  thieves  of  both 
sexes.  No  rag-time  was  danced  in  those  days, 
but  early  in  the  morning  we  had  plenty  of  the 
cancan.  The  riots  that  took  place  there  would 
put  to  shame  anything  that  goes  on  now.  *  I 
never  knew  the  town  so  tight-shut  as  it  is  at 
present.  It  is  far  better,  from  a  moral  point 
of  view  than  it  has  ever  been  before ;  at  least, 
in  my  recollection.  "The"  Allen's  was  in 
those  days  a  grade  more  decent  than  McGlo- 
ry's ;  for  at  "  The's  "  nobody  who  did  not  wear 
a  collar  and  coat  was  admitted.  I  remember 
a  pal  of  mine  who  met  a  society  lady  on  a 
slumming  expedition  with  a  reporter.  It  was 
at  McGlory's.  The  lady  looked  upon  the 
grafter  she  had  met  as  a  novelty.  The  grafter 
looked  upon  the  lady  in  the  same  way,  but 
consented  to  write  her  an  article  on  the  Bow- 
ery. He  sent  her  the  following  composition, 
which  he  showed  to  me  first,  and  allowed  me 
*  Summer  of  1902 

[75] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

to  copy  it.  I  always  did  like  freaks.  I  won't 
put  in  the  bad  grammar  and  spelling,  but  the 
rest  is : 

"  While  strolling,  after  the  midnight  hour, 
along  the  Lane,  that  historic  thoroughfare 
sometimes  called  the  Bowery,  I  dropped  into 
a  concert  hall.  At  a  glance,  I  saw  men  who 
worked  hard  during  the  week  and  needed  a 
little  recreation.  Near  them  were  their  sisters 
(that  is,  if  we  all  belong  to  the  same  human 
family),  who  had  fallen  by  the  wayside.  A 
man  was  trying  to  play  a  popular  song  on  a 
squeaky  piano,  while  another  gent  tried  to 
sing  the  first  part  of  the  song,  when  the  whole 
place  joined  in  the  chorus  with  a  zest.  I 
think  the  song  was  most  appropriate.  It  was 
a  ditty  of  the  slums  entitled,  '  Dear  Old 
Saturday  Night.'  " 

When  I  was  about  nineteen  I  took  another 
and  important  step  in  the  world  of  graft. 
One  night  I  met  a  couple  of  swell  grafters, 
one  of  whom  is  at  the  present  time  a  Pinker- 
ton  detective.  They  took  me  to  the  Hay- 
market,  where  I  met  a  crowd  of  guns  who 
were  making  barrels  of  money.  Two  of  them, 
Dutch  Lonzo  and  Charlie  Allen,  became  my 

friends,  and  introduced  me  to  Mr.  R ,  who 

[76] 


When  the  Graft  Was  Good. 

has  often  kept  me  out  of  prison.  He  was  a 
go-between,  a  lawyer,  and  well-known  to  all 
good  crooks.  If  we  "fell"  we  had  to  notify 
him  and  he  would  set  the  underground  wires 
working,  with  the  result  that  our  fall  money 
would  need  replenishing  badly,  but  that  we'd 
escape  the  stir. 

That  I  was  not  convicted  again  for  three 
years  was  entirely  due  to  my  fall  money  and  to 

the  cleverness  of  Mr.   R .     Besides  these 

expenses,  which  I  considered  legitimate,  I 
used  to  get  "shaken  down  "  regularly  by  the 
police  and  detectives.  The  following  is  a 
typical  case : 

I  was  standing  one  day  on  the  corner  of 
Grand  Street  and  the  Bowery  when  a  copper 
who  knew  me  came  up  and  said  :  "  There's  a 
lot  of  knocking  (complaining)  going  on  about 
the  Grand  Street  cars  being  torn  open.  The 
old  man  (the  chief)  won't  stand  for  it  much 
longer." 

"  It  wasn't  me,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  it  was  one  of  the  gang,"  he  replied, 
"  and  I  will  have  to  make  an  arrest  soon,  or 
take  some  one  to  headquarters  for  his  mug," 
(that  is,  to  have  his  picture  taken  for  the 
rogues'  gallery). 

I  in 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

I  knew  what  that  meant,  and  so  I  gave  him 
a  twenty  dollar  bill.  But  I  was  young  and 
often  objected  to  these  exorbitant  demands. 
More  than  anybody  else  a  thief  hates  to  be 
"touched,"  for  he  despises  the  sucker  on  whom 
he  lives.  And  we  were  certainly  touched  with 
great  regularity  by  the  coppers. 

Still,  we  really  had  nothing  to  complain  of 
in  those  days,  for  we  made  plenty  of  money 
and  had  a  good  time.  We  even  used  to  buy 
our  collars,  cuffs  and  gloves  cheap  from  graft- 
ers who  made  it  their  business  to  steal  those 
articles.  They  were  cheap  guns, — pipe  fiends, 
petty  larceny  thieves  and  shop-lifters — but 
they  helped  to  make  our  path  smoother. 

After  I  met  the  Haymarket.  grafter  I  used 
to  jump  out  to  neighboring  cities  on  very 
profitable  business.  A  good  graft  was  to 
work  the  fairs  at  Danbury,  Waverly,  Philadel- 
phia and  Pittsburg,  and  the  foot-ball  games 
at  Princeton.  I  always  travelled  with  three 
or  four  others,  and  went  for  gatherings  where 
we  knew  we  would  find  "roofers,"  or  country 
gentlemen.  On  my  very  first  jump-out  I  got 
a  fall,  but  the  copper  was  open  to  reason. 
Dutch  Lonzo  and  Charlie  Allen,  splendid 
pickpockets,  (I  always  went  with  good  thieves, 
[78] 


When  the  Graft  Was  Good. 

for  I  had  become  a  first-class  dip  and  had  a 
good  personal  appearance)  were  working  with 
me  in  Newark,  where  Vice-President  Hen- 
dricks was  to  speak.  I  picked  a  watch  in  the 
crowd,  and  was  nailed.  But  Dutch  Lonzo, 
who  had  the  gift  of  gab  better  than  any  man  I 
ever  met,  took  the  copper  into  a  saloon.  We 
all  had  a  drink,  and  for  twenty-five  dollars  I 
escaped  even  the  station-house.  Unfortu- 
nately, however,  I  was  compelled  to  return  the 
watch;  for  the  copper  had  to  "square"  the 
sucker.  Then  the  copper  said  to  Dutch  Lonzo, 
whom  he  knew  :  **  Go  back  and  graft,  if  you 
want,  but  be  sure  to  look  me  up."  In  an  hour 
or  two  we  got  enough  touches  to  do  us  for 
two  weeks.  Senator  Wet  Coin  was  at  this 
speech  with  about  two  hundred  Tammany 
braves,  and  we  picked  so  many  pockets  that  a 
newspaper  the  next  day  said  there  must  have 
been  at  least  one  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
pickpockets  in  the  Tammany  delegation.  We 
fell  quite  often  on  these  trips,  but  we  were 
always  willing  to  help  the  coppers  pay  for 
their  lower  flats.  I  sometimes  objected  be- 
cause of  their  exorbitant  demands,  but  I  was 
still  young.  I  knew  that  longshoremen  did 
harder  work  for  less  pay  than  the  coppers, 
[79] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

and  I  thought,  therefore,  that  the  latter  were 
too  eager  to  make  money  on  a  sure-thing 
graft.     And  I  always  hated  a  sure-thing  graft. 

But  didn't  we  strike  it  rich  in  Connecticut ! 
Whether  the  people  of  that  State  suffer  from 
partial  paralysis  or  not  I  don't  know,  but  cer- 
tainly if  all  States  were  as  easy  as  Connecticut 
the  guns  would  set  up  as  Vanderbilts.  I  never 
even  got  a  tumble  in  Connecticut.  I  ripped 
up  the  fairs  in  every  direction,  and  took  every 
chance.  The  inhabitants  were  so  easy  that 
we  treated  them  with  contempt. 

After  a  long  trip  in  Connecticut  I  nearly 
fell  on  my  return,  I  was  that  raw.  We  were 
breech-getting  (picking  men's  pockets)  in  the 
Brooklyn  cars.  I  was  stalling  ia  front,  Lonzo 
was  behind  and  Charlie  was  the  pick.  Lonzo 
telephoned  to  me  by  gestures  that  Charlie  had 
hold  of  the  leather,  but  it  wouldn't  come.  I 
was  hanging  on  a  strap,  and,  pretending  to  slip, 
brought  my  hand  down  heavily  on  the  sucker's 
hat,  which  went  over  his  ears.  The  leather 
came,  was  slipped  to  me,  Lonzo  apologized  for 
spoiling  the  hat  and  offered  the  sucker  a  five 
dollar  bill,  which  he  politely  refused.  Now 
that  was  rough  work,  and  we  would  not  have 
done  it,  had  we  not  been  travelling  so  long 
[80] 


M^hen  the  Graft  Was  Good, 

among  the  Reubs  in  Connecticut.  We  could 
have  made  our  gets  all  right,  but  we  were  so  con- 
fident and  delayed  so  long  that  the  sucker  blew 
before  we  left  the  car,  and  Lonzo  and  Charlie 
were  nailed,  and  the  next  morning  arraigned. 
In  the  meantime,  however,  we  had  started  the 

•wires   working,    and  notified  Mr.   R. and 

Lonzo's  wife  to  **  fix "  things  in  Brooklyn. 
The  reliable  attorney  got  a  bondsman,  and 
two  friends  of  his  "  fixed  "  the  cops,  who  made 
no  complaint.  Lonzo's  wife,  an  Irishwoman 
and  a  handsome  grafter,  had  just  finished  a 
five  year  bit  in  London.  It  cost  us  six  hun- 
dred dollars  to  "fix  "  that  case,  and  there  was 
only  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  the 
leather. 

That  made  Lonzo's  wife  exceedingly  angry. 

"  Good  Lord,"  she  said.  "  There's  panthers 
for  you  in  New  York !  There's  the  blokes 
that  shakes  you  down  too  heavy.  I'd  want  an 
unlimited  cheque  on  the  Bank  of  England  if 
you  ever  fell  again." 

A  little  philosophy  on  the  same  subject  was 
given  me  one  day  by  an  English  Moll,  who 
had  fallen  up-State  and  had  to  "  give  up  " 
heavily. 

"  I've  been  in  a  good  many  cities  and  'amlets 
[81] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

in  this  country,"  said  she,  "  but  gad  !  blind  me  if 
I  ever  want  to  fall  in  an  'amlet  in  this  bloom- 
ing State  again.  The  New  York  police  are  at 
least  a  little  sensible  at  times,  but  when  these 
Rufus's  up  the  State  get  a  Yorker  or  a  wise  guy, 
they'll  strip  him  down  to  his  socks.  One  of  these 
voracious  country  coppers  who  sing  sweet 
hymns  in  jail  is  a  more  successful  gun  than 
them  that  hit  the  rocky  path  and  take  brash  to 
get  the  long  green.  It  is  only  the  grafter  that 
is  supposed  to  protect  the  people  who  makes  a 
success  of  it.  The  hypocritical  mouthings  of 
these  people  just  suit  the  size  of  their  Bibles." 
Lonzo  and  I,  and  Patsy,  a  grafter  I  had 
picked  up  about  this  time,  made  several  fat 
trips  to  Philadelphia.  At  first  we  were  leary 
of  the  department  stores,  there  had  been  so 
many  "hollers,"  and  worked  the  "rattlers" 
(cars)  only.  We  were  told  by  some  local  guns 
that  we  could  not  "last"  twenty-four  hours  in 
Philadelphia  without  protection,  but  that  was 
not  our  experience.  We  went  easy  for  a  time, 
but  the  chances  were  too  good,  and  we  began 
voraciously  to  tear  open  the  department  stores, 
the  churches  and  the  theatres ;  and  without  a 
fall.  Whenever  anybody  mentioned  the  fly- 
cops  (detectives)  of  Philadelphia  it  reminded 

[82] 


When  the  Graft  Was  Good. 

us  of  the  inhabitants  of  Connecticut.  They 
were  not  "  dead " :  such  a  word  is  sacred. 
Their  proper  place  was  not  on  the  pohce  force, 
but  on  a  shelf  in  a  Dutchman's  grocery  store 
labelled  the  canned  article.  Philadelphia  was 
always  my  town,  but  I  never  stayed  very  long, 
partly  because  I  did  not  want  to  become  known 
in  such  a  fat  place,  and  partly  because  I  could 
not  bear  to  be  away  from  New  York  very  long  ; 
for,  although  there  is  better  graft  in  other  cities, 
there  is  no  such  place  to  live  in  as  Manhattan. 
I  had  no  fear  of  being  known  in  Philadelphia 
to  the  police ;  but  to  local  guns  who  would 
become  jealous  of  our  grafting  and  tip  us  off. 
On  one  of  my  trips  to  the  City  of  Brotherly 
Love  I  had  a  poetical  experience.  The  graft 
had  been  good,  and  one  Sunday  morning  I 
left  Dan  and  Patsy  asleep,  and  went  for  a  walk 
in  the  country,  intending,  for  a  change,  to 
observe  the  day  of  rest.  I  walked  for  several 
hours  through  a  beautiful,  quiet  country,  and 
about  ten  o'clock  passed  a  country  church. 
They  were  singing  inside,  and  for  some  reason, 
probably  because  I  had  had  a  good  walk  in 
the  country,  the  music  affected  me  strangely. 
I  entered,  and  saw  a  blind  evangelist  and  his 
sister.  I  bowed  my  head,  and  my  whole  past 
[83] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

life  came  over  me.  Although  everything  had 
been  coming  my  way,  I  felt  uneasy,  and 
thought  of  home  for  the  first  time  in  many 
weeks.  I  went  back  to  the  hotel  in  Philadel- 
phia, feeling  very  gloomy,  and  shut  myself  up 
in  my  room.  I  took  up  my  pen  and  began  a 
letter  to  a  Tommy  (girl)  in  New  York.  But 
I  could  not  forget  the  country  church,  and 
instead  of  writing  to  the  little  Tommy,  I 
wrote  the  following  jingles  : 

"  When  a  child  by  mother's  knee 
I  would  watch,  watch,  watch 
By  the  deep  blue  sea, 
And  the  moon-beams  played  merrily 
On  our  home  beside  the  sea. 

Chorus. 

"  The  Evening  Star  shines  bright-i-ly 
Above  our  home  beside  the  sea. 
And  the  moon-beams  danced  beamingly 
On  our  home  beside  the  sea. 
But  now  I  am  old,  infirm  and  grey 
I  shall  never  see  those  happy  days  ; 
I  would  give  my  life,  all  my  wealth,  and  fame 
To  hear  my  mother  gently  call  my  name." 

Towards  evening  Patsy  and  Dan  returned 
from   a   good   day's   work.     Patsy  noticed    I 
was  quiet  and  unusually  gloomy,  and  asked : 
[84] 


When  the  Graft  Was  Good. 

"  What's   the   matter  ?     Didn't  you   get  any- 
thing?" 

*'  No,"  I  replied,  *'  I'm  going  back  to  New- 
York." 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  asked  Dan. 

"  To  church,"  I  replied. 

**  In  the  city  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  in  the  country." 

"  I  cautioned  you,"  said  Dan,  "  against  tak- 
ing such  chances.  There's  no  dough  in  these 
country  churches.  If  you  want  to  try  lone 
ones  on  a  Sunday  take  in  some  swell  church 
in  the  city." 

The  following  Sunday  I  went  to  a  fashion- 
able church  and  got  a  few  leathers,  and  after- 
wards went  to  all  the  swell  churches  in  the 
city.  I  touched  them,  but  they  could  not 
touch  me.  I  heard  all  the  ministers  in  Phila- 
delphia, but  they  could  not  move  me  the  way 
that  country  evangelist  did.  They  were  all 
artificial  in  comparison. 

Shortly  after  my  poetical  experience  in  Phil- 
adelphia I  made  a  trip  up  New  York  State 
with  Patsy,  Dan  and  Joe,  and  grafted  in  a 
dozen  towns.  One  day  when  we  were  on  the 
cars  going  from  Albany  to  Amsterdam,  we 
saw  a  fat,  sleepy-looking    Dutchman,  and    I 

[85] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

nicked  him  for  a  clock  as  he  was  passing 
along  the  aisle  to  the  end  of  the  car.  It  took 
the  Dutchman  about  ten  minutes  after  he  had 
returned  to  his  seat  to  blow  that  his  super  was 
gone,  and  his  chain  hanging  down.  A  look 
of  stupid  surprise  spread  over  his  innocent 
countenance.  He  looked  all  around,  picked 
up  the  end  of  his  chain,  saw  it  was  twisted,  put 
his  hand  in  his  vest  pocket,  then  looked  again 
at  the  end  of  the  chain,  tried  his  pocket  again, 
then  went  through  all  of  his  pockets,  and 
repeated  each  of  these  actions  a  dozen  times. 
The  passengers  all  got  "  next,"  and  began  to 
grin.  "  Get  on  to  the  Hiker,"  (countryman) 
said  Patsy  to  Joe,  and  they  both  laughed.  I 
told  the  Dutchman  that  the  clock  must  have 
fallen  down  the  leg  of  his  underwear ;  where- 
upon the  Reuben  retired  to  investigate, 
searched  himself  thoroughly  and  returned, 
only  to  go  through  the  same  motions,  and 
then  retire  to  investigate  once  more.  It 
was  as  good  as  a  comedy.  But  it  was  well 
there  were  no  country  coppers  on  that  train. 
They  would  not  have  cared  a  rap  about  the 
Dutchman's  loss  of  his  property,  but  we  four 
probably  should  have  been  compelled  to  divide 
with  them. 

[86] 


When  the  Graft  Was  Good, 

Grafters  are  a  superstitious  lot.  Before  we 
reached  Buffalo  a  feeling  came  over  me  that  I 
had  better  not  work  in  that  town  ;  so  Joe,  Dan 
and  an  English  grafter  we  had  picked  up, 
named  Scotty,  stopped  at  Buffalo,  and  Patsy 
and  I  went  on.  Sure  enough,  in  a  couple  of 
days  Joe  wired  me  that  Scotty  had  fallen  for 
a  breech-kick  and  was  held  for  trial.     I  wired  to 

Mr.  R ,  who  got  into  communication  with 

Mr.  J ,  a  Canadian  Jew  living  in  Buffalo, 

who  set  the  wires  going.     The  sucker  proved 
a   very  hard  man  to   square,  but  a  politician 

who  was   a    friend    of  Mr.  J showed  him 

the  errors  of  his  way,  and  before  very  long 
Scotty  returned  to  New  York.  An  English 
Moll-buzzer,  a  girl,  got  hold  of  him  and  took 
him  back  to  London.  It  was  just  as  well,  for 
it  was  time  for  our 'bunch  to  break  up.  We 
were  getting  too  well-known  ;  and  falls  were 
coming  too  frequent.  So  we  had  a  general 
split.  Joe  went  to  Washington,  Patsy  down 
East,  Scotty  to  "stir  "in  London  and  I  stayed 
in  Manhattan,  where  I  shortly  afterwards  met 
Big  Jack  and  other  burglars  and  started  in  on 
that  dangerous  graft.  But  before  I  tell  about 
my  work  in  that  line,  I  will  narrate  the  story 
of  Mamie  and  Johnny,  a  famous  cracksman, 
[87] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

whom  I  met  at  this  time.  It  is  a  true  love 
story  of  the  Under  World.  Johnny,  and 
Mamie,  who  by  the  way  is  not  the  same  as 
Blonde  Mamie,  are  still  living  together  in  New 
York  City,  after  many  trials  and  tribulations, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  which  was  Mamie's  en- 
forced relation  with  a  New  York  detective. 
But  I  won't  anticipate  on  the  story,  which 
follows  in  the  next  chapter. 


[88] 


CHAPTER  V. 

Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

Johnny  met  Mamie  when  he  was  sixteen. 
At  that  time  he  was  looked  up  to  in  the 
neighborhood  as  one  of  the  most  promising  of 
the  younger  thieves. 

He  was  an  intelHgent,  enterprising  boy  and 
had,  moreover,  received  an  excellent  education 
in  the  school  of  crime.  His  parents  had  died 
before  he  was  twelve  years  old,  and  after  that 
the  lad  lived  at  the  Newsboys'  Lodging  House, 
in  Rivington  Street,  which  at  that  time  and 
until  it  ceased  to  exist  was  the  home  of  boys 
some  of  whom  afterwards  became  the  swellest 
of  crooks,  and  some  very  reputable  citizens 
and  prominent  politicians.  A  meal  and  a  bed 
there  cost  six  cents  apiece  and  even  the 
youngest  and  stupidest  waif  could  earn  or  steal 
enough  for  that. 

Johnny   became    an    adept   at    "hooking" 

things  from  grocery  stores  and  at  tapping  tills. 

When    he   was   thirteen    years   old    he    was 

arrested  for  petty  theft,  passed  a  night  in  the 

[893 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

police  station,  and  was  sent  to  the  Catholic 
Protectory,  where  he  was  the  associate  of 
boys  much  older  and  "wiser"  in  crime  than 
he.  At  that  place  were  all  kinds  of  incurables, 
from  those  arrested  for  serious  felonies  to 
those  who  had  merely  committed  the  crime  of 
being  homeless.  From  them  Johnny  learned 
the  ways  of  the  under  world  very  rapidly. 

After  a  year  of  confinement  he  was  clever 
enough  to  make  a  key  and  escape.  He  safely 
passed  old  "  Cop  O'Hagen,"  whose  duty  it  was 
to  watch  the  Harlem  bridge,  and  returned  to 
the  familiar  streets  in  lower  New  York,  where 
the  boys  and  rising  pickpockets  hid  him  from 
the  police,  until  they  forgot  about  his  escape. 

From  that  time  Johnny's  rise  in  the  world 
of  graft  was  rapid.  He  was  so  successful  in 
stealing  rope  and  copper  from  the  dry-docks 
that  the  older  heads  took  him  in  hand  and  used 
to  put  him  through  the  **  fan-light "  windows 
of  some  store,  where  his  haul  was  sometimes 
considerable.  He  began  to  grow  rich,  pur- 
chased some  shoes  and  stockings,  and  assumed 
a  "tough"  appearance,  with  great  pride.  He 
rose  a  step  higher,  boarded  tug-boats  and 
ships  anchored  at  the  docks,  and  constantly 
increased  his  income.  The  boys  looked  upon 
[90] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

him  as  a  winner  in  his  line  of  graft,  and  as  he 
gave  "  hot'l "  (lodging-house)  money  to  those 
boys  who  had  none,  he  was  popular.  So 
Johnny  became  "chesty",  began  to  "spread" 
himself,  to  play  pool,  to  wear  good  linen  col- 
lars and  to  associate  with  the  best  young 
thieves  in  the  ward. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  met  Mamie,  who 
was  a  year  or  two  younger  than  he.  She  was 
a  small,  dark,  pale-faced  little  girl,  and  as  neat 
and  quick-witted  as  Johnny.  She  lived  with 
her  parents,  near  the  Newsboys'  Lodging 
House,  where  Johnny  still  "  hung  out  ".  Ma- 
mie's father  and  mother  were  poor,  respectable 
people,  who  were  born  and  bred  in  the  old 
thirteenth  ward,  a  section  famous  for  the  many 
shop  girls  who  were  fine  "  spielers  "  (dancers). 
Mamie*s  mother  was  one  of  the  most  skillful 
of  these  dancers,  and  therefore  Mamie  came 
by  her  passion  for  the  waltz  very  naturally ; 
and  the  light-footed  little  girl  was  an  early 
favorite  with  the  mixed  crowd  of  dancers  who 
used  to  gather  at  the  old  Concordia  Assembly 
Rooms,  on  the  Bowery. 

It  was  at  this  place  that  Johnny  and  Mamie 
met  for  the  first  time.     It  was  a  case  of  mutual 
admiration,  and  the  boy  and  girl  started  in  to 
C91] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

"  keep  company."  Johnny  became  more  ambi- 
tious in  his  line  of  graft ;  he  had  a  girl !  He 
needed  money  to  buy  her  presents,  to  take  her 
to  balls,  theatres  and  picnics ;  and  he  began  to 
"gun",  which  means  to  pickpockets,  an  occu- 
pation which  he  found  far  more  lucrative  than 
"swagging"  copper  from  the  docks  or  going 
through  fan-light  windows.  He  did  not  remain 
content,  however,  with  "dipping"  and,  with 
several  much  older  "grafters",  he  started  in  to 
do  "  drag  "  work. 

"  Drag  "  work  is  a  rather  complicated  kind 
of  stealing  and  success  at  it  requires  consider- 
able skill.  Usually  a  "mob"  of  four  grafters 
work  together.  They  get  "tipped  off"  to 
some  store  where  there  is  a  line  of  valuable 
goods,  perhaps  a  large  silk  or  clothing-house. 
One  of  the  four,  called  the  "watcher",  times 
the  last  employee  that  leaves  the  place  to  be 
"touched".  The  "watcher"  is  at  his  post 
again  early  in  the  morning,  to  find  out  at  what 
time  the  first  employee  arrives.  He  may  even 
hire  a  furnished  room  opposite  the  store,  in 
order  to  secure  himself  against  identification 
by  some  Central  Office  detective  who  might 
stroll  by.  When  he  has  learned  the  hours  of 
the  employees  he  reports  to  his  "  pals  ".     At 

[92] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

a  late  hour  at  night  the  four  go  to  the  store, 
put  a  spindle  in  the  Yale  lock,  and  break  it 
with  a  blow  from  a  hammer.  They  go  inside, 
take  another  Yale  lock,  which  they  have 
brought  with  them,  lock  themselves  in,  go 
upstairs,  carry  the  most  valuable  goods  down- 
stairs and  pile  them  near  the  door.  Then 
they  go  away,  and,  in  the  morning,  before  the 
employees  are  due,  they  drive  up  boldly  to  the 
store  with  a  truck  ;  representing  a  driver,  two 
laborers,  and  a  shipping  clerk.  They  load  the 
wagon  with  the  goods,  lock  the  door,  and  drive 
away.  They  have  been  known  to  do  this  work 
in  full  view  of  the  unsuspecting  policeman  on 
the  beat. 

While  Johnny  had  advanced  to  this  dis- 
tinguished work,  Mamie,  too,  had  become  a 
bread-earner,  of  a  more  modest  and  a  more 
respectable  kind.  She  went  to  work  in  a  fac- 
tory, and  made  paper  boxes  for  two  and  one- 
half  dollars  a  week.  So  the  two  dressed  very 
well,  and  had  plenty  of  spending  money. 
Unless  Johnny  had  some  work  to  do  they 
always  met  in  the  evening,  and  soon  were 
seriously  in  love  with  one  another.  Mamie 
knew  what  Johnny's  line  of  business  was,  and 
admired  his  cleverness.  The  most  progres- 
[93] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

sive  people  in  her  set  believed  in  "  getting 
on "  in  any  way,  and  how  could  Mamie  be 
expected  to  form  a  social  morality  for  herself  ? 
She  thought  Johnny  was  the  nicest  boy  in  the 
world,  and  Johnny  returned  her  love  to  the 
full.  So  Johnny  finally  asked  her  if  she  would 
"  hitch  up  "  with  him  for  life,  and  she  gladly 
consented. 

They  were  married  and  set  up  a  nice  home 
in  Allen  Street.  It  was  before  the  time 
when  the  Jews  acquired  an  exclusive  right  to 
that  part  of  the  town,  and  in  this  neighbor- 
hood Mamie  and  Johnny  had  many  friends 
who  used  to  visit  them  in  the  evening ;  for 
the  loving  couple  were  exceedingly  domestic, 
and,  when  Johnny  had  no  business  on  hand, 
seldom  went  out  in  the  evening.  Johnny  was 
a  model  husband.  He  had  no  bad  habits, 
never  drank  or  gambled,  spent  as  much  time 
as  he  could  with  his  wife,  and  made  a  great 
deal  of  money.  Mamie  gave  up  her  work  in 
the  shop,  and  devoted  all  her  attention  to 
making  Johnny  happy  and  his  home  pleasant. 

For   about  four  years  Johnny  and  Mamie 

lived   very   happily   together.     Things   came 

their  way ;  and  Johnny  and  his  pals  laid  by  a 

considerable  amount  of  money  against  a  rainy 

[94] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

day.  To  be  sure,  they  had  their  little  troubles. 
Johnny  "  fell,"  that  is  to  say,  was  arrested,  a 
score  of  times,  but  succeeded  in  getting  off. 
It  was  partly  due  to  good  luck,  and  partly  to 
the  large  amount  of  fall-money  he  and  his  pals 
had  gathered  together. 

On  one  occasion  it  was  only  Mamie's  clever- 
ness and  devotion  that  saved  Johnny,  for  a 
time,  from  the  penitentiary.  One  dark  night 
Johnny  and  three  pals,  after  a  long  conversa- 
tion in  the  saloon  of  a  ward  politician,  visited 
a  large  jewelry  store  on  Fulton  Street,  Brook- 
lyn, artistically  opened  the  safe,  and  made 
away  with  fifteen  thousand  dollars.  It  was  a 
bold  and  famous  robbery,  and  the  search  for 
the  thieves  was  long  and  earnest.  Johnny 
and  his  friends  were  not  suspected  at  first,  but 
an  old  saying  among  thieves  is,  "  wherever 
there  are  three  or  four  there  is  always  a  leak," 
a  truth  similar  to  that  announced  by  Benjamin 
Franklin  :  "  Three  can  keep  a  secret  when  two 
are  dead." 

One  of  Johnny's  pals,  Patsy,  told  his  girl  in 
confidence  how  the  daring  "  touch  "  was  made. 
That  was  the  first  link  in  the  long  chain  of 
gossip  which  finally  reached  the  ears  of  the 
watching  detectives  ;  and  the  result  was  that 
[95] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

Patsy  and  Johnny  were  arrested.  It  was  im- 
possible to  "  settle  "  this  case,  no  matter  how 
much  "  fall-money  "  they  had  at  their  disposal  ; 
for  the  jeweler  belonged  to  the  Jewelers'  Pro- 
tective Association,  which  will  prosecute  those 
who  rob  anyone  belonging  to  their  organiza- 
tion. 

As  bribery  was  out  of  the  question,  Johnny 
and  Patsy,  who  were  what  is  called  in  the 
underworld  "slick  articles,"  put  their  heads 
together,  and  worked  out  a  scheme.  The  day 
of  their  trial  in  the  Brooklyn  Court  came 
around.  They  were  waiting  their  turn  in  the 
prisoner's  "  pen,"  adjoining  the  Court,  when 
Mamie  came  to  see  them.  The  meeting  be- 
tween her  and  Johnny  was  very  affecting. 
After  a  few  words  Mamie  noticed  that  her 
swell  Johnny  wore  no  neck-tie.  Johnny, 
seemingly  embarrassed,  turned  to  a  Court 
policeman,  and  asked  him  to  lend  him  his  tie 
for  a  short  time.  The  policeman  declined, 
but  remarked  that  Mamie  had  a  tie  that 
would  match  Johnny's  complexion  very  well. 
Mamie  impulsively  took  off  her  tie,  put  it 
on  Johnny,  kissed  him,  and  left  the  Court- 
house. 

Johnny  was  to  be  tried  in  ten  minutes,  but 
[96] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

he  induced  his  lawyer  to  have  the  trial  put 
off  for  half  an  hour  ;  and  another  case  was  tried 
instead.  Then  he  took  off  Mamie's  neck-tie, 
tore  the  back  out  of  it,  and  removed  two  fine 
steel  saws.  He  gave  one  to  Patsy,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  they  had  penetrated  a  small  iron 
bar  which  closed  a  little  window  leading  to  an 
alley.  Patsy  was  too  large  to  squeeze  himself 
through  the  opening,  but  '*  stalled"  for  Johnny 
while  the  latter  "  made  his  gets  ".  When  they 
came  to  put  these  two  on  trial  there  was  a 
sensation  in  Court.  No  Johnny  !  Patsy  knew 
nothing  about  it,  he  said ;  and  he  received  six 
years  for  his  crime. 

But  Johnny's  day  for  a  time  in  the  "stir  " 
soon  came  around.  He  made  a  good  **  touch  ", 
and  got  away  with  the  goods,  but  was  be- 
trayed by  a  pal,  a  professional  thief  who  was 
in  the  pay  of  the  police,  technically  called  a 
*'  stool-pigeon  ".  Mamie  visited  Johnny  in  the 
Tombs,  and  when  she  found  the  case  was 
hopeless  she  wanted  to  go  and  steal  some- 
thing herself  so  that  she  might  accompany  her 
boy  to  prison.  But  when  Johnny  told  her 
there  were  no  women  at  Sing  Sing  she  gave 
up  the  idea.  Johnny  went  to  prison  for  four 
years,  and  Mamie  went  to  a  tattooer,  and,  as  a 
[97] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

proof  of  her  devotion,  had  Johnny's  name 
indelibly  stamped  upon  her  arm. 

Mamie,  in  consequence  of  her  fidelity  to 
Johnny,  whom  she  regularly  visited  at  Sing 
Sing,  was  a  heroine  and  a  martyr  in  the  eyes 
of  the  grafters  of  both  sexes.  The  money  she 
and  Johnny  had  saved  began  to  dwindle,  and 
soon  she  was  compelled  to  work  again  at  box- 
making.  She  remained  faithful  to  Johnny, 
although  many  a  good  grafter  tried  to  make 
up  to  the  pretty  girl.  When  Johnny  was 
released  from  Sing  Sing,  Mamie  was  even 
happier  than  he.  They  had  no  money  now, 
but  some  politicians  and  saloon-keepers  who 
knew  that  Johnny  was  a  good  money-getter, 
set  them  up  in  a  little  house.  And  they  re- 
sumed their  quiet  domestic  life  together. 

Their  happiness  did  not  last  long,  however. 
Johnny  needed  money  more  than  ever  now  and 
resumed  his  dangerous  business.  He  got  in 
with  a  quartette  of  the  cleverest  safe-crack- 
ers in  the  country,  and  made  a  tour  of  the 
Eastern  cities.  They  made  many  important 
touches,  but  finally  Johnny  was  again  under 
suspicion  for  a  daring  robbery  in  Union 
Square,  and  was  compelled  to  become  a  soli- 
tary fugitive.  He  sent  word,  through  an  old- 
[98] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

time  burglar,  to  Mamie,  exhorted  her  to  keep 
up  the  home,  and  promised  to  send  money 
regularly.  He  was  forced,  however,  to  stay 
away  from  New  York  for  several  years,  and 
did  not  dare  to  communicate  with  Mamie. 

At  first,  Mamie  tried  to  resume  her  work  at 
box-making.  But  she  had  had  so  much  leisure 
and  had  lived  so  well  that  she  found  the 
work  irksome  and  the  pay  inadequate.  Mamie 
knew  many  women  pickpockets  and  shop- 
lifters, friends  of  her  husband.  When  some 
of  these  adventurous  girls  saw  that  Mamie  was 
discontented  with  her  lot,  they  induced  her  to 
go  out  and  work  with  them.  So  Mamie  be- 
came a  very  clever  shop-lifter,  and,  for  a  time, 
made  considerable  money.  Then  many  of  the 
best  "guns"  in  the  city  again  tried  to  make 
up  to  Mamie,  and  marry  her.  Johnny  was 
not  on  the  spot,  and  that,  in  the  eyes  of  a 
thief,  constitutes  a  divorce.  But  Mamie  still 
loved  her  wayward  boy  and  held  the  others 
back. 

In  the  meantime  Johnny  had  become  a 
great  traveller.  He  knew  that  the  detectives 
were  so  hot  on  his  track  that  he  dared  to  stay 
nowhere  very  long ;  nor  dared  to  trust  any- 
one :  so  he  worked  alone.  He  made  a  num- 
[99] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

ber  of  daring  robberies,  all  along  the  line  from 
Montreal  to  Detroit,  but  they  all  paled  in  com- 
parison with  a  touch  he  made  at  Philadel- 
phia, a  robbery  which  is  famous  in  criminal 
annals. 

He  had  returned  to  Philadelphia,  hoping 
to  get  a  chance  to  send  word  to  Mamie, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  for 
whom  he  pined.  While  in  the  city  of  broth- 
erly love  he  was  "tipped  off"  to  a  good  thing. 
He  boldly  entered  a  large  mercantile  house, 
and,  in  thirteen  minutes,  he  opened  a  time- 
lock  vault,  and  abstracted  three  hundred  thous- 
and dollars  worth  of  negotiable  bonds  and 
escaped. 

The  bold  deed  made  a  sensation  all  over 
the  country.  The  mercantile  house  and  the 
safe  manufacturers  were  so  hot  for  the  thief 
that  the  detectives  everywhere  worked  hard 
and  "on  the  level".  Johnny  was  not  sus- 
pected then,  and  never  "did  time"  for  this 
touch.  For  a  while  he  hid  in  Philadelphia ; 
boarded  there  with  a  poor,  respectable  family, 
representing  himself  as  a  laborer  out  of  work. 
He  spent  the  daytime  in  a  little  German  beer 
saloon,  playing  pinocle  with  the  proprietor ; 
and  was  perfectly  safe. 

[  loo] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

But  his  longing  for  Mamie  had  grown  so 
strong  that  he  could  not  bear  it.  He  knew 
that  the  detectives  were  still  looking  for  him 
because  of  the  old  crime,  and  that  they  were 
hot  to  discover  the  thief  of  the  negotiable 
bonds.  He  sent  word  to  Mamie,  neverthe- 
less, through  an  old  pal  he  found  at  Philadel- 
phia, and  arranged  to  see  her  at  Mount  Ver- 
non, near  New  York. 

The  two  met  in  the  side  room  of  a  little 
saloon  near  the  railway  station  ;  and  the  greet- 
ing was  affectionate  in  the  extreme.  They 
had  not  seen  one  another  for  years !  And 
hardly  a  message  had  been  exchanged.  After 
a  little  Johnny  told  Mamie,  proudly,  that 
it  was  he  who  had  stolen  the  negotiable 
bonds. 

"Now,"  he  added,  "we  are  rich.  After  a 
little  I  can  sell  these  bonds  for  thirty  cents 
on  the  dollar  and  then  you  and  I  will  go  away 
and  give  up  this  life.  I  am  getting  older 
and  my  nerve  is  not  what  it  was  once.  We'll 
settle  down  quietly  in  London  or  some  town 
where  we  are  not  known,  and  be  happy. 
Won't  we,  dear  ?  " 

Mamie  said  "  Yes, "  but  she  appeared  con- 
fused.    When   Johnny   asked   her   what  was 

[lOl] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

the  matter,  she  burst  into  tears ;  and  choked 
and  sobbed  for  some  time  before  she  could 
say  a  word.  She  ordered  a  glass  of  whiskey, 
which  she  never  used  to  drink  in  the  old  days, 
and  when  the  bar-tender  had  left,  she  turned 
to  the  worried  Johnny,  embraced  him  tenderly 
and  said,  in  a  voice  which  still  trembled : 

"Johnny,  will  you  forgive  me  if  I  tell  you 
something?  It's  pretty  bad,  but  not  so  bad 
as  it  might  be,  for  I  love  only  you.  " 

Johnny  encouraged  her  with  a  kiss  and  she 
continued,  in  a  broken  voice  : 

'*  When  you  were  gone  again,  Johnny,  I 
tried  to  make  my  living  at  the  old  box-making 
work  ;  but  the  pay  wasn't  big  enough  for  me 
then.  So  I  began  to  graft — dipping  and  shop- 
lifting— and  made  money.  But  a  Central  Of- 
fice man  you  used  to  know — Jim  Lennon — got 
on  to  me. " 

"Jim  Lennon,?"  said  Johnny,  "Sure,  I 
knew  him.  He  used  to  be  sweet  on  you, 
Mamie.     He  treated  you  right,  I  hope.  " 

Mamie  blushed  and  looked  down. 

"Well?"  said  Johnny. 

"Jim  came  to  me  one  day,"  she  continued, 
"  and  told  me  he  wouldn't  stand  for  what  I 
was  doing.  He  said  the  drygoods  people 
[  I02] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

were  hollering  like  mad  ;  and  that  he'd  have  to 
arrest  me  if  I  didn't  quit.  I  tried  to  square 
him  with  a  little  dough,  but  I  soon  saw  that 
wasn't  what  he  was  after." 

"  *  Look  here,  Mamie,'  he  finally  said.  *  It's 
just  this  way.  Johnny  is  a  good  fellow,  but 
he's  dead  to  you  and  dead  to  me.  He's  done 
time,  and  that  breaks  all  marriage  ties.  Now, 
I  want  you  to  hitch  up  with  me,  and  lead  an 
honest  life.  I'll  give  you  a  good  home,  and 
you  won't  run  any  more  risk  of  the  pen  ! ' " 

Johnny  grew  very  pale  as  Mamie  said  the 
last  words  ;  and  when  she  stopped  speaking, 
he  said  quietly : 

"  And  you  did  it  ?  " 

Mamie  again  burst  into  tears.  "  Oh,  Johnny," 
she  cried,  "what else  could  I  do.  He  wouldn't 
let  me  go  on  grafting,  and  I  had  to  live." 

"And  so  you  married  him?"  Johnny  in- 
sisted. 

The  reply  was  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

For  the  next  thirty  seconds  Johnny  thought 
very  rapidly.  This  woman  had  his  liberty  in 
her  hands.  He  had  told  her  about  the  negoti- 
able bonds.  Besides,  he  loved  Mamie  and 
understood  the  difficulty  of  her  position.  His 
[103] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

life  as  a  thief  had  made  him  very  tolerant  in 
some  respects.  He  therefore  swallowed  his 
emotion,  and  turned  a  kind  face  to  Mamie. 

"You  still  love  me?"  he  asked,  "better 
than  the  copper  ?  " 

*'  Sure,"  said  Mamie,  warmly. 

"  Now  listen,"  said  Johnny,  the  old  business- 
like expression  coming  back  into  his  face. 
*'  I  am  hounded  for  the  old  trick ;  and  the 
detectives  are  looking  everywhere  for  these 
negotiable  bonds,  which  I  have  here,  in  this 
satchel.  Can  I  trust  you  with  them  ?  Will 
you  mind  them  for  me,  until  things  quiet 
down  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  will,"  said  Mamie,  gladly. 

So  they  parted  once  more.  Johnny  went 
into  hiding  again,  and  Mamie  went  to  the 
detective's  house,  with  the  negotiable  bonds. 
She  had  no  intention  of  betraying  Johnny ; 
for  she  might  be  arrested  for  receiving  stolen 
goods  ;  and,  besides,  she  still  loved  her  first 
husband.  So  she  planted  the  bonds  in  the 
bottom  of  the  detective's  trunk. 

Here  was  a  pretty  situation.  Her  husband, 
the  detectives,  and  many  other  "fly-cops"  all 
over  the  country,  were  looking  for  these  nego- 
tiable bonds,  at  the  very  moment  when  they 
[  104] 


Mamie  and  the  Negotiable  Bonds. 

were  safely  stowed  away  in  the  detective's 
trunk.  Mamie  and  Johnny,  who  continued  to 
meet  occasionally,  often  smiled  at  the  humor 
of  the  situation. 

Soon,  however,  suspicion  for  the  Philadel- 
phia touch  began  to  attach  to  Johnny.  Ma- 
mie's detective  asked  her  one  evening  if  she 
had  heard  anything  about  Johnny,  of  late. 

**  Not  for  years,"  said  Mamie,  calmly. 

But  one  night,  several  Central  Office  men 
followed  Mamie  as  she  went  to  Mt.  Vernon  to 
meet  Johnny  ;  and  when  the  two  old  lovers 
parted,  Johnny  was  arrested  on  account  of  the 
fifteen  thousand  dollar  robbery  in  Brooklyn, 
from  the  penalty  of  which  he  had  escaped  by 
means  of  Mamie's  neck-tie  many  years  before. 
The  detectives  suspected  Johnny  of  having 
stolen  the  bonds,  but  of  this  they  could  get  no 
evidence.  So  he  was  sent  to  Sing  Sing  for  six 
years  on  the  old  charge.  When  he  was  safely 
in  prison  the  detectives  induced  him  to  re- 
turn the  bonds,  on  the  promise  that  he  would 
not  be  prosecuted  at  his  release,  and  would  be 
paid  a  certain  sum  of  money.  The  mercantile 
house  agreed,  and  Johnny  sent  word  to  Mamie 
to  give  up  the  bonds.  Then,  of  course,  the 
detective  knew  about  the  trick  that  Mamie 
[105] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

had  played  him.  But  he,  like  Johnny,  was  a 
philosopher,  and  forgave  the  clever  woman. 
When  he  first  heard  of  it,  however,  he  had 
said  to  her,  indignantly  : 

"You  cow,  if  you  had  given  the  bonds  to 
me,  I  would  have  been  made  a  police  captain, 
and  you  my  queen." 

As  soon  as  Johnny  got  out  of  stir,  Mamie 
quit  the  detective,  and  the  couple  are  now  liv- 
ing again  together  in  a  quiet,  domestic  manner, 
in  Manhattan. 


[io6] 


CHAPTER  VI. 

fFbat  1'he  Burglar  Faces. 

For  a  long  time  I  took  Sheenie  Annie's 
advice  and  did  not  do  any  night  work.  It  is 
too  dangerous,  the  come-back  is  too  sure,  you 
have  to  depend  too  much  on  the  nerve  of  your 
pals,  the  "  bits  "  are  too  long ;  and  it  is  very 
difficult  to  square  it.  But  as  time  went  on  I 
grew  bolder.  I  wanted  to  do  something  new, 
and  get  more  dough.  My  new  departure  was 
not,  however,  entirely  due  to  ambition  and 
the  boldness  acquired  by  habitual  success. 
After  a  gun  has  grafted  for  a  long  time  his 
nervous  system  becomes  affected,  for  it  is  cer- 
tainly an  exciting  life.  He  is  then  very  apt  to 
need  a  stimulant.  He  is  usually  addicted  to 
either  opium  or  chloral,  morphine  or  whiskey. 
Even  at  this  early  period  I  began  to  take  a 
little  opium,  which  afterwards  was  one  of  the 
main  causes  of  my  constant  residence  in  stir, 
and  was  really  the  wreck  of  my  life,  for  when 
a  grafter  is  doped  he  is  inclined  to  be  very 
reckless.  Perhaps  if  I  had  never  hit  the  hop 
[  107] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

I  would  not  have  engaged  in  the  dangerous 
occupation  of  a  burglar. 

I  will  say  one  thing  for  opium,  however. 
That  drug  never  makes  a  man  careless  of  his 
personal  appearance.  He  will  go  to  prison 
frequently,  but  he  will  always  have  a  good 
front,  and  will  remain  a  self-respecting  thief. 
The  whiskey  dip,  on  the  other  hand,  is  apt  to 
dress  carelessly,  lose  his  ambition  and,  eventu- 
ally to  go  down  and  out  as  a  common  *'  bum  ". 

I  began  night-work  when  I  was  about  twenty 
years  old,  and  at  first  I  did  not  go  in  for  it 
very  heavily.  Big  Jack,  Jerry,  Ed  and  I  made 
several  good  touches  in  Mt.  Vernon  and  in 
hotels  at  summer  resorts  and  got  sums  ranging 
from  two  hundred  to  twenty-seven  hundred 
dollars.  We  worked  together  for  nearly  a 
year  with  much  success  and  only  an  occasional 
fall,  and  these  we  succeeded  in  squaring.  Once 
we  had  a  shooting-match  which  made  me  a 
little  leary.  I  was  getting  out  the  window 
with  my  swag,  when  a  shot  just  grazed  my  eye. 
I  nearly  decided  to  quit  then,  but,  I  suppose 
because  it  was  about  that  time  I  was  begin- 
ning to  take  opium,  I  continued  with  more 
boldness  than  ever. 

One  night  Ed,  a  close  pal  of  mine,  was  oper- 
[108] 


What  I'he  Burglar  Faces. 

ating  with  me  out  in  Jersey.  We  were  work- 
ing in  the  rear  of  a  house  and  Ed  was  just 
shinning  up  the  back  porch  to  cHmb  in  the 
second  story  window,  when  a  shutter  above 
was  thrown  open  and,  without  warning,  a  pis- 
tol shot  rang  out. 

Down  came  Ed,  falling  like  a  log  at  my  feet. 

"Are  you  hurt?,"  said  I. 

**  Done  !  "  said  he,  and  I  saw  it  was  so. 

Now  a  man  may  be  nervy  enough,  but  self- 
preservation  is  the  first  rule  of  life.  I  turned 
and  ran  at  the  top  of  my  speed  across  two 
back  yards,  then  through  a  field,  then  over  a 
fence  into  what  seemed  a  ploughed  field 
beyond.  The  ground  was  rough  and  covered 
with  hummocks,  and  as  I  stumbled  along  I 
suddenly  tripped  and  fell  ten  feet  down  into 
an  open  grave.  The  place  was  a  cemetery, 
though  I  had  not  recognized  it  in  the  dark- 
ness. For  hour>»  I  lay  there  trembling,  but 
nobody  came  and  I  was  safe.  It  was  not  long 
after  that,  however,  that  something  did  happen 
to  shake  my  nerve,  which  was  pretty  good. 
It  came  about  in  the  following  way. 

A  jeweler,  who  was  a  well-known  "fence", 
put  us  on  to  a  place  where  we  could  get  thous- 
ands. He  was  one  of  the  most  successful 
[  109] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

*'  feelers-out "  in  the  business.  The  man  who 
was  my  pal  on  this  occasion,  Dal,  looked  the 
place  over  with  me  and  though  we  thought  it 
a  bit  risky,  the  size  of  the  graft  attracted  us. 
We  had  to  climb  up  on  the  front  porch,  with 
an  electric  light  streaming  right  down  on  us. 

I  had  reached  the  porch  when  I  got  the 
well-known  signal  of  danger.  I  hurriedly  de- 
scended and  asked  Dal  what  was  the  matter. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  "there's  somebody  off  there, 
a  block  away." 

We  investigated,  and  you  can  imagine  how 
I  felt  when  we  found  nothing  but  an  old  goat. 
It  was  a  case  of  Dai's  nerves,  but  the  best  of 
us  get  nervous  at  times. 

I  went  to  the  porch  again  and  opened  the 
window  with  a  putty  knife  (made  of  the  rib  of 
a  woman's  corset),  when  I  got  the  "  cluck  " 
again,  and  hastily  descended,  but  again  found 
it  was  Dai's  imagination. 

Then  I  grew  hot,  and  said :  "  You  have 
knocked  all  the  nerve  out  of  me,  for  sure." 

"  Jim,"  he  replied,  *'  I  ain't  feeling  good." 

Was  it  a  premonition  ?     He  wanted  to  quit 

the  job,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him.     I  opened  up 

on  him.     "  What !  "  I  said.     "  You  are  willing 

to  steal  one  piece  of  jewelry  and  take  your 

[no] 


JVhat  'The  Burglar  Faces. 

chance  of  going  to  stir,  but  when  we  get  a 
good  thing  that  would  land  us  in  Easy  Street 
the  rest  of  our  lives,  you  weaken  !  " 

Dal  was  quiet,  and  his  face  unusually  pale. 
He  was  a  good  fellow,  but  his  nerve  was  gone. 
I  braced  him  up,  however,  and  told  him  we'd 
get  the  "  ^clat "  the  third  time,  sure.  Then 
climbing  the  porch  the  third  time,  I  removed 
my  shoes,  raised  the  window  again,  and  had 
just  struck  a  light  when  a  revolver  was  pressed 
on  my  head.  I  knocked  the  man's  hand  up, 
quick,  and  jumped.  As  I  did  so  I  heard  a 
cry  and  then  the  beating  of  a  policeman's 
stick  on  the  sidewalk. 

I  ran,  with  two  men  after  me,  and  came  to 
the  gateway  of  a  yard,  where  I  saw  a  big 
bloodhound  chained  to  his  kennel.  He 
growled  savagely,  but  it  was  neck  or  nothing, 
so  I  patted  his  head  just  as  though  I  were  not 
shaking  with  fear,  slipped  down  on  my  hands 
and  knees  and  crept  into  his  dog-house.  Why 
didn't  he  bite  me  ?  Was  it  sympathy  ?  When 
my  pursuers  came  up,  the  owner  of  the  house, 
who  had  been  aroused  by  the  cries,  said  :  **  He 
is  not  here.  This  dog  would  eat  him  up." 
When  the  police  saw  the  animal  they  were 
convinced  of  it  too. 

[Ill] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

A  little  while  later  I  left  my  friend's  kennel. 
It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  I  had 
no  shoes  on  and  only  one  dollar  and  sixty  cents 
in  my  pocket.  I  sneaked  through  the  back 
window  of  the  first  house  I  saw,  stole  a  pair 
of  shoes  and  eighty  dollars  from  a  room 
where  a  man  and  his  wife  were  sleeping. 
Then  I  took  a  car.  Knowing  that  I  was  still 
being  looked  for,  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  my 
hat,  as  a  partial  disguise.  On  the  seat  with 
me  was  a  working  man  asleep.  I  took  his 
old  soft  hat,  leaving  my  new  derby  by  his 
side,  and  also  took  his  dinner  pail.  Then 
when  I  left  the  car  I  threw  away  my  collar 
and  necktie,  and  reached  New  York,  dis- 
guised as  a  workingman.  The  next  day  the 
papers  told  how  poor  old  Dal  had  been 
arrested.  Everything  that  had  happened  for 
weeks  was  put  on  him. 

A  week  later  Dal  was  found  dead  in  his 
cell,  and  I  believe  he  did  the  Dutch  act 
(suicide),  for  I  remember  one  day,  months 
before  that  fatal  night,  Dal  and  I  were  sitting 
in  a  politician's  saloon,  when  he  said  to  me : 

"  Jim,  do  you  believe  in  heaven  ?  " 

'•  No,"  said  I. 

*'  Do  you  believe  in  hell  ?  "  he  asked. 

[112] 


What  'J'he  Burglar  Faces. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"I've  got  a  mind  to  find  out,"  he  said 
quickly,  and  pointed  a  big  revolver  at  his 
teeth.  One  of  the  guns  in  the  saloon  said  : 
*'  Let  him  try  it,"  but  I  knocked  the  pistol 
away,  for  something  in  his  manner  made  me 
think  seriously  he  would  shoot. 

"You  poor  brute,"  I  said  to  him.  "  I'll  put 
your  ashes  in  an  urn  some  day  and  write 
"  Dear  Old  Saturday  Night "  for  an  epitaph  for 
you;  but  it  isn't  time  yet." 

It  did  not  take  many  experiences  like  the 
above  to  make  me  very  leary  of  night-work  ; 
and  I  went  more  slowly  for  some  time.  I 
continued  to  dip,  however,  more  boldly  than 
ever  and  to  do  a  good  deal  of  day  work ;  in 
which  comparatively  humble  graft  the  servant 
girls,  as  I  have  already  said,  used  to  help  us 
out  considerably.  This  class  of  women  never 
interested  me  as  much  as  the  sporting  charac- 
ters, but  we  used  to  make  good  use  of  them  ; 
and  sometimes  they  amused  us. 

I  remember  an  entertaining  episode  which 
took  place  while  Harry,  a  pal  of  mine  at  the  time, 
and  I,  were  going  with  a  couple  of  these  hard- 
working Molls.  Harry  was  rather  inclined  to 
be  a  sure-thing  grafter,  of  which  class  of  thieves 
[113] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

I  shall  say  more  In  another  chapter ;  and  after 
my  recent  dangerous  adventures  I  tolerated 
that  class  more  than  was  customary  with  me. 
Indeed,  if  Harry  had  been  the  real  thing  I 
would  have  cut  him  dead ;  as  it  was  he  came 
near  enough  to  the  genuine  article  to  make  me 
despise  him  in  my  ordinary  mood.  But,  as  I 
say,  I  was  uncommonly  leary  just  at  that 
time. 

He  and  I  were  walking  in  Stuyvesant  Square 
when  we  met  a  couple  of  these  domestic  slaves. 
With  a  "  hello,"  we  rang  in  on  them,  walked 
them  down  Second  Avenue  and  had  a  few 
drinks  all  around.  My  girl  told  me  whom 
she  was  working  with.  Thinking  there  might 
be  something  doing  I  felt  her  out  further, 
with  a  view  to  finding  where  in  the  house  the 
stuff  lay.  Knowing  the  Celtic  character 
thoroughly,  I  easily  got  the  desired  informa- 
tion. We  took  the  girls  into  Bonnell's  Museum, 
at  Eighth  Street  and  Broadway,  and  saw  a 
howling  border  melodrama,  in  which  wild 
Indians  were  as  thick  as  Moll-buzzers  in  1884. 
Mary  Anne,  who  was  my  girl,  said  she  should 
tell  her  mistress  about  the  beautiful  play  ;  and 
asked  for  a  program.  They  were  all  out,  and 
so  I  gave  her  an  old  one,  of  another  play, 
[114] 


JVhat  'The  Burglar  Faces. 

which  I  had  In  my  pocket.  We  had  a  good 
time,  and  made  a  date  with  them  for  another 
meeting,  in  two  weeks  from  that  night ;  but 
before  the  appointed  hour  we  had  beat  Mary 
Anne's  mistress  out  of  two  hundred  dollars 
worth  of  silverware,  easily  obtained,  thanks  to 
the  information  I  had  received  from  Mary 
Anne.  When  we  met  the  girls  again,  I  found 
Mary  Anne  in  a  great  state  of  indignation  ;  I 
was  afraid  she  was  "  next "  to  our  being  the 
burglars,  and  came  near  falling  through  the 
floor.  But  her  rage,  it  seemed,  was  about  the 
play.  She  had  told  her  mistress  about  the  wild 
Indian  melodrama  she  had  seen,  and  then  had 
shown  her  the  program  of  The  Banker  s 
Daughter. 

"  But  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  Indian  in 
The  Banker's  Daughter,''  her  mistress  had  said. 
•'  I  fear  you  are  deceiving  me,  Mary  Anne,  and 
that  you  have  been  to  some  low  place  on  the 
Bowery." 

The  other  servants  in  the  house  got  next 
and  kidded  Mary  Anne  almost  to  death  about 
Indians  and  The  Banker's  Daughter.  After 
I  had  quieted  her  somewhat  she  told  me  about 
the  burglary  that  had  taken  place  at  her  house, 
and  Harry  and  I  were  much  interested.  She 
[115] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

was  sure  the  touch  had  been  made  by  two 
*'  naygers  "  who  lived  in  the  vicinity. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  incident  that  I  beat 
Blackwell's  Island  out  of  three  months.  A 
certain  "  heeler "  put  me  on  to  a  disorderly 
house  where  we  could  get  some  stones.  I  had 
everything  "fixed."  The  "heeler"  had  ar- 
ranged it  with  the  copper  on  the  beat,  and  it 
seemed  like  a  sure  thing ;  although  the  Madam, 
I  understood,  was  a  good  shot  and  had  plenty 
of  nerve.  My  accomplice,  the  heeler,  was  a 
sure  thing  grafter,  who  had  selected  me  be- 
cause I  had  the  requisite  nerve  and  was  no 
squealer.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  a 
trusted  pal  and  I  ascended  from  the  back  porch 
to  the  Madam's  bed-room.  I  had  just  struck 
a  match,  when  I  heard  a  female  voice  say, 
"What  are  you  doing  there?"  and  a  bottle, 
fired  at  my  head,  banged  up  against  the  wall 
with  a  crash.  I  did  not  like  to  alarm  women, 
and  so  I  made  my  "gets"  out  the  window,  over 
the  fence,  and  into  another  street,  where  I  was 
picked  up  by  a  copper,  on  general  principles. 

The  Madam  told  him  that  the  thief  was 
over  six  feet  tall  and  had  a  fierce  black  mus- 
tache. As  I  am  only  five  feet  seven  inches 
and  was  smoothly  shaven,  it  did  not  seem  like 
[ii6] 


What  l^he  Burglar  Faces. 

an  identification  ;  although  when  she  saw  me 
she  changed  her  note,  and  swore  I  was  the 
man.  The  copper,  who  knew  I  was  a  grafter, 
though  he  did  not  think  I  did  that  kind  of 
work,  nevertheless  took  me  to  the  station- 
house,  where  I  convinced  two  wardmen  that 
I  had  been  arrested  unjustly.  When  I  was 
led  before  the  magistrate  in  the  morning,  the 
copper  said  the  lady's  description  did  not 
tally  with  the  short,  red-haired  and  freckled 
thief  before  his  Honor.  The  policemen  all 
agreed,  however,  that  I  was  a  notorious 
grafter,  and  the  magistrate,  who  was  not 
much  of  a  lawyer,  sent  me  to  the  Island  for 
three  months  on  general  principles. 

I  was  terribly  sore,  for  I  knew  I  had  been 
illegally  treated.  I  felt  as  much  a  martyr  as 
if  I  had  not  been  guilty  in  the  least ;  and  I 
determined  to  escape  at  all  hazards  ;  although 
my  friends  told  me  I  would  be  released  any 
day;  for  certainly  the  evidence  against  me 
had  been  insufficient. 

After  I  had  been  on  the  Island  ten  days  I 
went  to  a  friend,  who  had  been  confined  there 
several  months  and  said  :  "  Eddy,  I  have 
been  unjustly  convicted  for  a  crime  I  com- 
mitted— such  was  my  way  of  putting  it — and 
[117] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

I  am  determined  to  make  my  elegant,  (escape) 
come  what  will.  Do  you  know  the  weak 
spots  of  this  dump  ?  " 

He  put  me  "  next ",  and  I  saw  there  was  a 
chance,  a  slim  one,  if  a  man  could  swim  and 
didn't  mind  drowning.  I  found  another  pal, 
Jack  Donovan,  who,  like  me,  could  swim  like 
a  fish ;  he  was  desperate  too,  and  willing  to 
take  any  chance  to  see  New  York.  Five  or 
six  of  us  slept  together  in  one  large  cell,  and 
on  the  night  selected  for  our  attempt.  Jack 
and  I  slipped  into  a  compartment  where  about 
twenty  short  term  prisoners  were  kept.  Our 
departure  from  the  other  cell,  from  which  it 
was  very  difficult  to  escape  after  once  being 
locked  in  for  the  night,  was  not  noticed  by 
the  night  guard  and  his  trusty  because  our 
pals  in  the  cell  answered  to  our  names  when 
they  were  called.  It  was  comparatively  easy 
to  escape  from  the  large  room  where  the  short 
term  men  were  confined.  Into  this  room,  too, 
Jack  and  I  had  taken  tools  from  the  quarry 
during  the  daytime. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  a  November  night 

when  we  made  our  escape.     We  took  ropes 

from  the  canvas  cot,  tied  them  together,  and 

lowered  ourselves  to  the  ground  on   the  out- 

[ii8] 


What  'The  Burglar  Faces. 

side,  where  we  found  bad  weather,  rain  and 
hail.  We  were  unable  to  obtain  a  boat,  but 
secured  a  telegraph  pole,  rolled  it  into  the 
water,  and  set  off  with  it  for  New  York.  The 
terrific  tide  at  Hellgate  soon  carried  us  well 
into  the  middle  of  Long  Island  Sound,  and 
when  we  had  been  in  the  water  half  an  hour, 
we  were  very  cold  and  numb,  and  began  to  think 
that  all  was  over.  But  neither  of  us  feared 
death.  All  I  wanted  was  to  save  enough 
money  to  be  cremated ;  and  I  was  confident 
my  friends  would  see  to  that.  I  don't  think 
fear  of  death  is  a  common  trait  among  grafters. 
Perhaps  it  is  lack  of  imagination  ;  more  likely, 
however,  it  is  because  they  think  they  won't 
be  any  the  worse  off  after  death. 

Still,  I  was  not  sorry  when  a  wrecking  boat 
suddenly  popped  our  way.  The  tug  did  not 
see  us,  and  hit  Jack's  end  of  the  pole  a  hard 
blow  that  must  have  shaken  him  off.  I  heard 
him  holler  "  Save  me,"  and  I  yelled  too.  I 
didn't  think  anything  about  capture  just  then. 
All  my  desire  to  live  came  back  to  me. 

I  was  pulled   into  the  boat.     The  captain 

was  a  good  fellow.     He  was  "  next "  and  only 

smiled  at  my   lies.     What  was   more  to  the 

purpose   he   gave   me   some   good    whiskey, 

[119] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

and  set  me  ashore  in  Jersey  City.  Jack  was 
drowned.  All  through  life  I  have  been  used 
to  losing  a  friend  suddenly  by  the  wayside ; 
but  I  have  always  felt  sad  when  it  happened. 
And  yet  it  would  have  been  far  better  for  me 
if  I  had  been  picked  out  for  an  early  death. 
I  guess  poor  Jack  was  lucky. 

Certainly  there  are  worse  things  than  death. 
Through  these  three  years  of  continual  and 
for  the  most  part  successful  graft,  I  had  known 
a  man  named  Henry  Fry  whose  story  is  one 
of  the  saddest.  If  he  had  been  called  off  sud- 
denly as  Jack  was,  he  would  certainly  have 
been  deemed  lucky  by  those  who  knew;  for 
he  was  married  to  a  bad  woman.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  successful  box-men  (safe- 
blowers)  in  the  city,  and  made  thousands,  but 
nothing  was  enough  for  his  wife.  She  used 
to  say,  when  he  would  put  twelve  hundred 
dollars  in  her  lap,  "  This  won't  meet  expenses. 
I  need  one  thousand  dollars  more.  "  She  was 
unfaithful  to  him,  too,  and  with  his  friends. 
When  I  go  to  a  matinde  and  see  a  lot  of 
sleek,  fat,  inane  looking  women,  I  wonder  who 
the  poor  devils  are  who  are  having  their  life 
blood  sucked  out  of  them.  Certainly  it  was  so 
with  Henry,  or  Henny,  as  we  used  to  call  him. 

[  I20] 


What  The  Burglar  Faces. 

One  day,  I  remember,  we  went  down  the 
Sound  with  a  well-known  politician's  chowder 
party,  and  Henny  was  with  us.  Two  weeks 
earlier  New  York  had  been  startled  by  a  dar- 
ing burglary.  A  large  silk-importer's  place  of 
business  was  entered  and  his  safe,  supposed 
to  be  burglar-proof,  was  opened.  He  was 
about  to  be  married,  and  his  valuable  wedding 
presents,  which  were  in  the  safe,  and  six  thou- 
sand dollars  worth  of  silk,  were  stolen.  It  was 
Henny  and  his  pals  who  had  made  the  touch, 
but  on  this  beautiful  night  on  the  Sound, 
Henny  was  sad.  We  were  sitting  on  deck, 
as  it  was  a  hot  summer  night,  when  Henny 
jumped  off  his  camp-stool  and  asked  me  to 
sing  a  song.  I  sang  a  sentimental  ditty,  in 
my  tenor  voice,  and  then  Henny  took  me  to 
the  side  of  the  boat,  away  from  the  others. 

"  Kid, "  he  said,  "  I  feel  trouble  coming 
over  me. " 

"  Cheer  up,  "  I  replied.  "  You're  a  little 
down-hearted,  that's  all.  " 

**  I  wish  to  God, "  he  said,  "  I  was  like 
you. " 

I  pulled  out  a  five  dollar  bill  and  a  two  dol- 
lar bill  and  remarked :  "I've  got  just  seven 
dollars  to  my  name.  " 

[121] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

He  turned  to  me  and  said  : 

**  But  you  are  happy.  You  don't  let  any- 
thing bother  you. " 

Henny  did  not  drink  as  a  rule ;  that  was 
one  reason  he  was  such  a  good  box-man,  but 
on  this  occasion  we  had  a  couple  of  drinks, 
and  I  sang  "I  love  but  one."  Then  Henny 
ordered  champagne,  grew  confidential,  and 
told  me  his  troubles. 

"Kid"  he  said,  "I've  got  thirty  five  hun- 
dred dollars  on  me.  I  have  been  giving  my 
wife  a  good  deal  of  money,  but  don't  know 
what  she  does  with  it.  In  sixty  days  I  have 
given  her  three  thousand  dollars,  and  she 
complains  about  poverty  all  the  time.  " 

Henny  had  a  nice  flat  of  seven  or  eight 
rooms ;  he  owed  nothing  and  had  no  chil- 
dren. He  said  he  was  unable  to  find  any 
bank  books  in  his  wife's  trunk,  and  was  confi- 
dent she  was  not  laying  the  money  by.  She 
did  not  give  it  to  her  people,  but  even  bor- 
rowed money  from  her  father,  a  well-to-do 
builder. 

Two  days  after  the  night  of  the  excursion, 
one  of  Henny's  pals  in  the  silk  robbery,  went 
into  a  gin  mill,  treated  everybody,  and  threw 
a  one  thousand  dollar  bill  down  on  the  bar. 

[  122] 


What  'The  Burglar  Faces. 

Grafters,  probably  more  than  others,  like  this 
kind  of  display.  It  is  the  only  way  to  rise  in 
their  society.  A  Central  Office  detective  saw 
this  little  exhibition,  got  into  the  grafter's  con- 
fidence and  weeded  him  out  a  bit.  A  night 
or  two  afterwards  Henny  was  in  bed  at  home, 
when  the  servant  girl,  who  was  in  love  with 
Henny,  and  detested  his  wife  because  she 
treated  her  husband  so  badly  (she  used  to  say 
to  me,  **  She  ain't  worthy  to  tie  his  shoe  string  ") 
came  to  the  door  and  told  Henny  and  his  wife 
that  a  couple  of  men  and  a  policeman  in  uni- 
form were  inquiring  for  him.  Henny  replied 
sleepily  that  they  were  friends  of  his  who  had 
come  to  buy  some  stones ;  but  the  girl  was 
alarmed.  She  knew  that  Henny  was  crooked 
and  feared  that  those  below  meant  him  no 
good.  She  took  the  canvas  turn-about  con- 
taining burglar's  tools  which  hung  on  the  wall 
near  the  bed,  and  pinned  it  around  her  waist, 
under  her  skirt,  and  then  admitted  the  three 
visitors. 

The  sergeant  said  to  Henny,  who  had  dressed 
himself,  "  You  are  under  suspicion  for  the  silk 
robbery."  Yet  there  was,  as  is  not  uncommon, 
a  "but",  which  is  as  a  rule  a  monetary  consid- 
eration. Henny  knew  that  the  crime  was  old, 
[  123] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

and,  as  he  thought  his  "  fence  "  was  safe,  he  did 
not  see  how  there  could  be  a  come-back.  So 
he  did  not  take  the  hint  to  shell  out,  and 
worked  the  innocent  con.  But  those  whose 
business  it  is  to  watch  the  world  of  prey,  put 
two  and  two  together,  and  were  "  next "  that 
Henny  and  his  mob  had  pulled  off  the  trick. 
So  they  searched  the  house,  expecting  to  find, 
if  not  ^clat,  at  least  burglar's  tools ;  for  they 
knew  that  Henny  was  at  the  top  of  the  ladder, 
and  that  he  must  have  something  to  work  with. 
While  the  sergeant  was  going  through  Henny's 
trunk,  one  of  the  flymen  fooled  with  the  pretty 
servant  girl.  She  jumped,  and  a  pair  of  turn- 
ers fell  on  the  floor.  It  did  not  take  the  fly- 
man long  to  find  the  whole  kit  of  tools. 
Henny  was  arrested,  convicted,  and  sent  to 
Sing  Sing  for  five  years.  While  in  prison  he 
became  insane,  his  delusion  being  that  he  was 
a  funny  man  on  the  Detroit  Free  Press,  which 
he  thought  was  owned  by  his  wife. 

I  never  discovered  what  Henny's  wife  did 
with  the  money  she  had  from  him.  When  I 
last  heard  of  her  she  was  married  to  another 
successful  grafter,  whom  she  was  making 
unhappy  also.  In  a  grafter's  life  a  woman 
often  takes  the  part  of  the  avenger  of  society. 
[  124] 


What  'The  Burglar  Faces. 

She  turns  against  the  grafters  their  own  weap- 
ons, and  uses  them  with  more  skill,  for  no 
man  can  graft  like  a  woman. 

I  had  now  been  grafting  for  three  years  in 
the  full  tide  of  success.  Since  the  age  of  eigh- 
teen I  had  had  no  serious  fall.  I  had  made 
much  money  and  lived  high.  I  had  risen  in 
the  world  of  graft,  and  I  had  become,  not  only 
a  skillful  pickpocket,  but  a  good  swindler  and 
drag-worker  and  had  done  some  good  things 
as  a  burglar.  I  was  approaching  my  twenty- 
first  year,  when,  as  you  will  see,  I  was  to  go  to 
the  penitentiary  for  the  first  time.  This  is  a 
good  place,  perhaps,  to  describe  my  general 
manner  of  life,  my  daily  menu,  so  to  speak, 
during  these  three  fat  years  :  for  after  my  first 
term  in  state's  prison  things  went  from  bad  to 
worse. 

I  lived  in  a  furnished  room ;  or  at  a  hotel. 
If  there  was  nothing  doing  in  the  line  of  graft, 
I'd  lie  abed  late,  and  read  the  newspapers  to 
see  if  any  large  gathering,  where  we  might 
make  some  touches,  was  on  hand.  One  of  my 
girls,  of  whom  there  was  a  long  succession,  was 
usually  with  me.  We  would  breakfast,  if  the 
day  was  an  idle  one,  about  one  or  two  o'clock 
[125] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

in  the  afternoon.  Then  we'd  send  to  the  res- 
taurant and  have  a  beefsteak  or  chops  in  our 
rooms,  and  perhaps  a  whiskey  sour.  If  it  was 
another  grafter's  girl  I'd  won  I'd  be  greatly 
pleased,  for  that  kind  of  thing  is  a  game  with 
us.  In  the  afternoon  I'd  take  in  some  variety 
show ;  or  buy  the  "  Tommy  "  a  present ;  if  it 
was  summer  we  might  go  to  a  picnic,  or  to  the 
Island.  If  I  was  alone,  I  would  meet  a  pal, 
play  billiards  or  pool,  bet  on  the  races,  base- 
ball and  prize  fights,  jump  out  to  the  Polo 
grounds,  or  go  to  Patsy's  house  and  have  a 
game  of  poker.  Patsy's  wife  was  a  handsome 
grafter;  and  Patsy  was  jealous.  Every  gun 
is  sensitive  about  his  wife,  for  he  doesn't  know 
how  long  he  will  have  her  with  him.  In  the 
evening  I  would  go  to  a  dance-hall ;  or  to 
Coney  Island  if  the  weather  was  good. 

If  it  was  a  busy  day,  that  is,  if  there  was  a 
touch  to  be  pulled  off,  we  would  get  up  in  the 
morning  or  the  afternoon,  according  to  the 
best  time  for  the  particular  job  in  hand.  In 
the  afternoon  we  would  often  graft  at  the 
Polo  grounds,  where  we  had  a  copper  "  right." 
We  did  not  have  the  same  privileges  at  the 
race  track,  because  it  was  protected  by  the 
Pinkerton  men.  We'd  console  ourselves  at 
[126] 


What  The  Burglar  Faces. 

the  Polo  grounds,  which  we  used  to  tear  wide 
open,  and  where  I  never  got  even  a  hint  of  a 
fall ;  the  coppers  got  their  percentage  of  the 
touches.  In  the  morning  we  would  meet  at 
one  of  the  grafter's  homes  or  rooms  and  talk 
over  our  scheme  for  the  day  or  night.  If  we 
were  going  outside  the  city  we  would  have  to 
rise  very  early.  Sometimes  we  were  sorry  we 
had  lost  our  sleep ;  particularly  the  time  we 
tried  to  tear  open  the  town  of  Sing  Sing,  near 
which  the  famous  prison  is.  We  found  noth- 
ing to  steal  there  but  pig  iron,  and  there  were 
only  two  pretty  girls  in  the  whole  village. 
We  used  to  jump  out  to  neighboring  towns, 
not  always  to  graft,  but  sometimes  to  see  our 
girls,  for  like  sailors,  the  well-dressed,  dapper 
pickpocket  has  a  girl  in  every  port.  If  we 
made  a  good  touch  in  the  afternoon  we'd  go 
on  a  spree  in  the  evening  with  Sheenie  Annie, 
Blonde  Mamie,  Big  Lena  or  some  other  good- 
natured  lasses,  or  we'd  go  over  and  inspect 
the  Jersey  maidens.  After  a  good  touch  we 
would  put  some  of  the  dough  away  for  fall- 
money,  or  for  our  sick  relatives  or  guns  in 
stir  or  in  the  hospital.  We'd  all  chip  in  to 
help  out  a  woman  grafter  in  trouble,  and  pool 
a  piece  of  jewelry  sometimes,  for  the  purpose. 
[127] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

Then,  our  duty  done,  we  would  put  on  our 
best  front,  and  visit  our  friends  and  sporting 
places.  Among  others  we  used  to  jump  over 
to  a  hotel  kept  by  an  ex-gun,  one  of  the  best 
of  the  spud  men  (green  goods  men),  who  is 
now  on  the  level  and  a  bit  of  a  politician. 
He  owns  six  fast  horses,  is  married  and  has 
two  beautiful  children. 

A  few  months  before  I  was  sent  to  the  pen- 
itentiary for  the  first  time,  I  had  my  only  true 
love  affair.  I  have  liked  many  girls,  but  sen- 
timent of  the  kind  I  felt  for  Ethel  has  played 
little  part  in  my  life.  For  Ethel  I  felt  the 
real  thing,  and  she  for  me.  She  was  a  good, 
sensible  girl,  and  came  from  a  respectable 
family.  She  lived  with  her  father,  who  was  a 
drummer,  and  took  care  of  the  house  for  him. 
She  was  a  good  deal  of  a  musician,  and,  like 
most  other  girls,  she  was  fond  of  dancing.  I 
first  met  her  at  Beethoven  Hall,  and  was  in- 
troduced to  her  by  a  man,  an  honest  laborer, 
who  was  in  love  with  her.  I  liked  her  at  first, 
sight,  but  did  not  love  her  until  I  had  talked 
with  her.  In  two  weeks  we  were  lovers,  and 
went  everywhere  together.  The  workingman 
who  loved  her  too  was  jealous  and  began  to 
knock  me.     He  told  her  I  was  a  grafter,  but 

[128] 


What  The  Burglar  Faces. 

she  would  not  believe  him ;  and  said  nothing 
to  me  about  it,  but  it  came  to  my  ears  through 
an  intimate  girl  pal  of  hers.  Shortly  after 
that  I  fell  for  a  breech-kick  (was  arrested  for 
picking  a  man's  trouser's  pocket),  but  I  had  a 
good  lawyer  and  the  copper  was  one  of  those 
who  are  open  to  reason.  I  lay  a  month  in 
the  Tombs,  however,  before  I  got  off,  and 
Ethel  learned  all  about  it.  She  came  to  the 
Tombs  to  see  me,  but,  instead  of  reproaches, 
I  got  sympathy  from  her.  After  I  was  re- 
leased I  gave  her  some  of  my  confidence. 
She  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  be  honest,  and  go 
to  work ;  and  said  she  would  ask  her  father 
to  get  me  a  job.  Her  father  came  to  me  and 
painted  what  my  life  would  be,  if  I  kept  on. 
I  thought  the  matter  over  sincerely.  I  had 
formed  expensive  habits  which  I  could  not 
keep  up  on  any  salary  I  could  honestly  make. 
Away  down  in  my  mind  (I  suppose  you  would 
call  it  soul)  I  knew  I  was  not  ready  for  re- 
form. I  talked  with  Ethel,  and  told  her  that 
I  loved  her,  but  that  I  could  not  quit  my  life. 
She  said  she  would  marry  me  anyway.  But  I 
thought  the  world  of  her,  and  told  her  that 
though  I  had  blasted  my  own  life  I  would  not 
blast  hers.  I  would  not  marry  her,  she  was 
[  129] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

so  good  and  affectionate.  When  we  parted,  I 
said  to  myself :  Man  proposes,  habit  disposes. 
It  was  certainly  lucky  that  I  did  not  marry 
that  sweet  girl,  for  a  month  after  I  had  split 
with  her,  I  fell  for  a  long  term  in  state's 
prison.  It  was  for  a  breech-kick,  which  I 
could  not  square.  I  had  gone  out  of  my  hotel 
one  morning  for  a  bottle  of  whiskey  when  I 
met  two  grafters,  Johnny  and  Alec,  who  were 
towing  a  "sucker"  along  with  them.  They 
gave  me  the  tip  that  it  was  worth  trying.  In- 
deed, I  gathered  that  the  man  must  have  his 
bank  with  him,  and  I  nicked  him  in  a  car  for 
his  breech-leather.  A  spectator  saw  the  deed 
and  tipped  off  a  copper.  I  was  nailed,  but 
had  nothing  on  me,  for  I  had  passed  the 
leather  to  Alec.  I  was  not  in  the  mood  for 
the  police  station,  and  with  Alec's  help  I 
"licked"  the  copper,  who  pulled  his  gun  and 
fired  at  us  as  we  ran  up  a  side  street.  Alec 
blazed  back,  and  escaped,  but  I  was  arrested. 
I  could  not  square  it,  as  I  have  said,  for  I  had 
been  wanted  at  Headquarters  for  some  time 
past,  because  I   did  not  like  to  give  up,  and 

was  no  stool-pigeon.     I  notified  Mr.   R , 

who  was  told  to  keep  his  hands  off.     I  had 

been  tearing  the  cars  open  for  so  long  that 

[  130] 


JVhai  ^he  Burglar  Faces. 

the  company  wanted  to  "do  "  me.  They  got 
brassy-mouthed  and  yelled  murder.  I  saw  I 
had  a  corporation  against  me  and  hadn't  a 
living  chance  to  beat  it.  So  I  pleaded  guilty 
and  received  five  years  and  seven  months  at 
Sing  Sing. 

A  boy  of  twenty-one,  I  was  hand-cuffed 
with  two  old  jail-birds,  and  as  we  rode  up  on 
a  Fourth  Avenue  car  to  the  Grand  Central 
Station,  I  felt  deeply  humilated  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life.  When  the  passengers  stared 
at  me  I  hung  my  head  with  shame. 


[131] 


CHAPTER  VII. 

In  Stir. 

I  HUNG  my  head  with  shame,  but  not  be- 
cause of  contrition.  I  was  ashamed  of  being 
caught  and  made  a  spectacle  of.  All  the  way 
to  Sing  Sing  station  people  stared  at  us  as  if 
we  were  wild  animals.  We  walked  from  the 
town  to  the  prison,  in  close  company  with  two 
deputy  sheriffs.  I  observed  considerably, 
knowing  that  I  should  not  see  the  outside 
world  again  for  a  number  of  years.  I  looked 
with  envy  at  the  people  we  passed  who  seemed 
honest,  and  thought  of  home  and  the  chances 
I  had  thrown  away. 

When  I  reached  the  stir  I  was  put  through 
the  usual  ceremonies.  My  pedigree  was  taken, 
but  I  told  the  examiners  nothing.  I  gave 
them  a  false  name  and  a  false  pedigree.  Then 
a  bath  was  given  to  my  clothes  and  I  was 
taken  to  the  tailor  shop.  When  my  hair  had 
been  cropped  close  and  a  suit  of  stripes  given 
me  I  felt  what  it  was  to  be  the  convicted 
criminal.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  feeling,  I  can 
[  132] 


In  Stir. 

tell  you,  and  when  I  was  taken  to  my  cell  my 
heart  sank  indeed.  A  narrow  room,  seven 
feet,  four  inches  long;  dark,  damp,  with 
moisture  on  the  walls,  and  an  old  iron  cot  with 
plenty  of  company,  as  I  afterwards  discovered 
— this  was  to  be  my  home  for  years.  And  I 
as  full  of  life  as  a  young  goat !  How  could  I 
bear  it  ? 

After  I  had  been  examined  by  the  doctor 
and  questioned  about  my  religion  by  the  chap- 
lain, I  was  left  to  reflect  in  my  cell.  I  was 
interrupted  in  my  melancholy  train  of  thought 
by  two  convicts  who  were  at  work  in  the  hall 
just  outside  my  cell.  I  had  known  them  on 
the  outside,  and  they,  taking  good  care  not  to 
be  seen  by  the  screws  (keepers)  tipped  me  off 
through  my  prison  door  to  everything  in  stir 
which  was  necessary  for  a  first  timer  to  know. 
They  told  me  to  keep  my  mouth  shut,  to  take 
everything  from  the  screws  in  silence,  and  if 
assigned  to  a  shop  to  do  my  work.  They 
told  me  who  the  stool-pigeons  were,  that  is  to 
say,  the  convicts  who,  in  order  to  curry  favor 
and  have  an  easy  time,  put  the  keepers  next 
to  what  other  convicts  are  doing,  and  so  help 
to  prevent  escapes.  They  tipped  me  off  to 
those  keepers  who  were  hard  to  get  along 
[  133] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

with,  and  put  me  next  to  the  Underground 
Tunnel,  and  who  were  running  it.  Sing  Sing, 
they  said,  is  the  best  of  the  three  New  York 
penitentiaries :  for  the  grub  is  better  than  at 
the  others,  there  are  more  privileges,  and, 
above  all,  it  is  nearer  New  York,  so  that  your 
friends  can  visit  you  more  frequently.  They 
gave  me  a  good  deal  of  prison  gossip,  and 
told  me  who  among  my  friends  were  there, 
and  what  their  condition  of  health  was.  So 
and  so  had  died  or  gone  home,  they  said,  such 
and  such  had  been  drafted  to  Auburn  or 
Clinton  prisons.  If  I  wanted  to  communicate 
with  my  friends  in  stir  all  that  was  necessary 
for  me  to  do  was  to  write  a  few  stiffs  (letters) 
and  they  would  be  sent  by  the  Underground 
Tunnel.  They  asked  me  about  their  old  pals, 
hang-outs  and  girls  in  New  York,  and  I,  in 
turn  gave  them  a  lot  of  New  York  gossip. 
Like  all  convicts  they  shed  a  part  of  the 
things  they  had  received  from  home,  gave  me 
canned  goods,  tobacco  and  a  pipe.  It  did  not 
take  me  long  to  get  on  to  the  workings  of  the 
prison. 

I  was  particularly  interested  in  the  Under- 
ground Tunnel,  for  I   saw  at  once  its  great 
usefulness.     This   is   the    secret    system    by 
[134] 


In  Stir. 

which  contraband  articles,  such  as  whiskey, 
opium  and  morphine  are  brought  into  the 
prison.  When  a  rogue  is  persuasive  with  the 
coin  of  the  realm  he  can  always  find  a  keeper 
or  two  to  bring  him  what  he  considers  the 
necessaries  of  life,  among  which  are  opium, 
whiskey  and  tobacco.  If  you  have  a  screw 
"  right,"  you  can  be  well  supplied  with  these 
little  things.  To  get  him  "  right  "  it  is  often 
necessary  to  give  him  a  share — about  twenty 
per  cent — of  the  money  sent  you  from  home. 
This  system  is  worked  in  all  the  State  prisons 
in  New  York,  and  during  my  first  term,  or 
any  of  the  other  terms  for  that  matter,  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  supplying  my  growing  need  for 
opium. 

I  do  not  want  people  to  get  the  idea  that  it 
is  always  necessary  to  bribe  a  keeper,  in  order 
to  obtain  these  little  luxuries ;  for  many  a 
screw  has  brought  me  whiskey  and  hop,  and 
contraband  letters  from  other  inmates,  without 
demanding  a  penny.  A  keeper  is  a  human 
being  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  he  is  sometimes 
moved  by  considerations  other  than  of  pelf. 
No  matter  how  good  and  conscientious  he 
may  be,  a  keeper  is  but  a  man  after  all,  and, 
having  very  little  to  do,  especially  if  he  is  in 
[135] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

charge  of  an  idle  gang  of  "  cons  "  he  is  apt  to 
enter  into  conversation  with  them,  particularly 
if  they  are  better  educated  or  more  interesting 
than  he,  which  often  is  the  case.  They  tell 
him  about  their  escapades  on  the  outside  and 
often  get  his  sympathy  and  friendship.  It  is 
only  natural  that  those  keepers  who  are  good 
fellows  should  do  small  favors  for  certain  con- 
victs. They  may  begin  by  bringing  the  con- 
victs newspapers  to  read,  but  they  will  end  by 
providing  them  with  almost  everything.  Some 
of  them,  however,  are  so  lacking  in  human 
sympathy,  that  their  kindness  is  aroused  only 
by  a  glimpse  of  the  coin  of  the  realm  ;  or  by 
the  prospect  of  getting  some  convict  to  do 
their  dirty  work  for  them,  that  is,  to  spy  upon 
their  fellow  prisoners. 

At  Auburn  penitentiary,  whither  I  was 
drafted  after  nine  months  at  Sing  Sing,  a  few 
of  the  convicts  peddled  opium  and  whiskey, 
with,  of  course,  the  connivance  of  the  keepers. 
There  are  always  some  persons  in  prison  as 
well  as  out  who  want  to  make  capital  out  of 
the  misfortunes  of  others.  These  peddlars, 
were  despised  by  the  rest  of  the  convicts,  for 
they  were  invariably  stool-pigeons  ;  and  young 
convicts  who  never  before  knew  the  power  of 
[136] 


In  Stir. 

the  drug  became  opium  fiends,  all  on  account 
of  the  business  propensities  of  these  detest- 
able rats  (stool-pigeons)  who,  because  they 
had  money  and  kept  the  screws  next  to  those 
cons  who  tried  to  escape,  lived  in  Easy  Street 
while  in  stir. 

While  on  this  subject,  I  will  tell  about  a 
certain  famous  "fence"  (at  one  of  these 
prisons)  although  he  did  not  operate  until  my 
second  term.  At  that  time  things  were  boom- 
ing on  the  outside.  The  graft  was  so  good 
that  certain  convicts  in  my  clique  were  getting 
good  dough  sent  them  by  their  pals  who 
were  at  liberty ;  and  many  luxuries  came  in, 
therefore,  by  the  Underground  Tunnel.  Now 
those  keepers  who  are  next  to  the  Under- 
ground develop,  through  their  association  with 
convicts,  a  propensity  to  graft,  but  usually 
have  not  the  nerve  to  hustle  for  the  goods. 
So  they  are  willing  to  accept  stolen  property, 
not  having  the  courage  and  skill  to  steal,  from 
the  inhabitants  of  the  under  world.  A  con- 
vict, whom  I  knew  when  at  liberty,  named 
Mike,  thought  he  saw  an  opportunity  to  do 
a  good  "fencing"  business  in  prison.  He 
gave  a  "red-front"  (gold  watch  and  chain), 
which  he  had  stolen  in  his  good  days,  to  a 
[  137] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

certain  keeper  who  was  running  the  Under- 
ground, and  thus  got  him  **  right."  Then 
Mike  made  arrangements  with  two  grafters  on 
the  outside  to  supply  the  keeper  and  his 
friends  with  what  they  wanted.  If  the  keeper 
said  his  girl  wanted  a  stone,  Mike  would  send 
word  to  one  of  the  thieves  on  the  outside  to 
supply  a  good  diamond  as  quickly  as  possible. 
The  keeper  would  give  Mike  a  fair  price  for 
these  valuable  articles  and  then  sell  the  stones 
or  watches,  or  make  his  girl  a  present. 

Other  keepers  followed  suit,  for  they  couldn't 
see  how  there  was  any  "  come-back  "  possible, 
and  soon  Mike  was  doing  a  thriving  business. 
It  lasted  for  five  or  six  months,  when  Mike 
stopped  it  as  a  regular  graft  because  of  the 
growing  cupidity  of  the  keepers.  One  of 
them  ordered  a  woman's  watch  and  chain  and 
a  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings  through  the 
Underground  Tunnel.  Mike  obtained  the 
required  articles,  but  the  keeper  paid  only  half 
of  what  he  promised,  and  Mike  thereupon 
shut  up  shop.  Occasionally,  however,  he  con 
tinned  to  sell  goods  stolen  by  his  pals  who 
were  at  liberty,  but  only  for  cash  on  the  spot, 
and  refused  all  credit.  The  keepers  gradually 
got  a  great  feeling  of  respect  for  this  convict 
[138] 


In  Stir. 

"  fence  "  who  was  so  clever  and  who  stood  up 
for  his  rights ;  and  the  business  went  on 
smoothly  again,  for  a  while. 

But  finally  it  was  broken  up  for  good.  A 
grafter  on  the  outside,  Tommy,  sent  through 
the  Underground  a  pawn  ticket  for  some  valu- 
able goods,  among  them  a  sealskin  sacque 
worth  three  hundred  dollars,  which  he  had 
stolen  and  hocked  in  Philadelphia,  Mike 
sold  the  pawn-ticket  to  a  screw.  Soon  after 
that  Tommy,  or  one  of  his  pals,  got  a  fall  and 
*'  squealed  ".  The  police  got  "  next "  to  where 
the  goods  were,  and  when  the  keeper  sent  the 
ticket  and  the  money  to  redeem  the  articles 
they  allowed  them  to  be  forwarded  to  the 
prison,  but  arrested  the  keeper  for  receiving 
stolen  goods.  He  was  convicted  and  sen- 
tenced to  ten  years,  but  got  off  through  influ- 
ence. That,  however,  finished  the  "  fence  "  at 
the  institution. 

To  resume  the  thread  of  my  narrative,  the  day 
after  I  reached  Sing  Sing  I  was  put  through 
the  routine  that  lasted  all  the  time  I  was  there. 
At  six-thirty  in  the  morning  we  were  awakened 
by  the  bell  and  marched  in  lock-step  (from 
which  many  of  us  were  to  acquire  a  peculiar 
gait  that  was  to  mark  us  through  life  and  help 
[  139] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

prevent  us  from  leading  decent  lives)  to  the 
bucket-shop,  where  we  washed,  marched  to 
the  mess  for  breakfast  at  seven-thirty,  then 
to  the  various  shops  to  work  until  eleven- 
thirty,  when  at  the  whistle  we  would  form 
again  into  squads  and  march,  again  in  the 
lock-step,  fraternally  but  silently,  to  our  solemn 
dinner,  which  we  ate  in  dead  silence.  Silence, 
indeed,  except  on  the  sly,  was  the  general  rule 
of  our  day,  until  work  was  over,  when  we 
could  whisper  together  until  five  o'clock,  the 
hour  to  return  to  our  cells,  into  which  we 
would  carry  bread  for  supper,  coffee  being 
conveyed  to  us  through  a  spout  in  the  wall. 
The  food  at  Sing  Sing  was  pretty  good. 
Breakfast  consisted  of  hash  or  molasses,  black 
coffee  and  bread ;  and  at  dinner  we  had  pork 
and  beans,  potatoes,  hot  coffee  and  bread. 
Pork  and  beans  gave  place  to  four  eggs  on 
Friday,  and  sometimes  stews  were  given  us. 
It  was  true  what  I'd  heard,  that  Sing  Sing  has 
the  best  food  of  any  institution  I  have  known. 
After  five  o'clock  I  would  read  in  my  cell  by 
an  oil  lamp  (since  my  time  electricity  has  been 
put  in  the  prison)  until  nine  o'clock,  when  I 
had  to  put  out  my  light  and  go  to  bed. 

I  had  a  great  deal   more  time  for  reading 
[  140] 


In  Stir. 

and  meditation  in  my  lonely  cell  than  one 
would  think  by  the  above  routine.  I  was  put 
to  work  in  the  shop  making  chairs.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  worked  in  my  life, 
and  I  took  my  time  about  it.  I  felt  no  strong 
desire  to  work  for  the  State.  I  was  expected 
to  cane  a  hundred  chairs  a  day,  but  I  usually 
caned  about  two.  I  did  not  believe  in  work. 
I  felt  at  that  time  that  New  York  State  owed 
me  a  living.  I  was  getting  a  living  all  right, 
but  I  was  ungrateful.  I  did  not  thank  them  a 
wee  bit.  I  must  have  been  a  bad  example  to 
other  "  cons,"  for  they  began  to  get  as  tired  as 
myself.  At  any  rate,  I  lost  my  job,  and  was 
sent  back  to  my  cell,  where  I  stayed  most  of 
the  time  while  at  Sing  Sing. 

I  worked,  indeed,  very  little  at  any  time 
during  my  three  bits  in  the  penitentiary.  The 
prison  at  Sing  Sing,  during  the  nine  months  I 
was  there  on  my  first  term,  was  very  crowded, 
and  there  was  not  enough  work  to  go  round  ; 
and  I  was  absolutely  idle  most  of  the  time. 
When  I  had  been  drafted  to  Auburn  I  found 
more  work  to  do,  but  still  very  little,  for  it 
was  just  then  that  the  legislature  had  shut 
down  on  contract  labor  in  the  prisons.  The 
outside  merchants  squealed  because  they  could 
[141] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

not  compete  with  unpaid  convict  labor ;  and 
so  the  prison  authorities  had  to  shut  down 
many  of  their  shops,  running  only  enough  to 
supply  the  inside  demand,  which  was  slight. 
For  eighteen  months  at  Auburn  I  did  not 
work  a  day.  I  think  it  was  a  very  bad  thing 
for  the  health  of  convicts  when  this  law  was 
passed ;  for  certainly  idleness  is  a  very  bad 
thing  for  most  of  them ;  and  to  be  shut  up 
nearly  all  the  time  in  damp,  unhealthy  cells 
like  those  at  Sing  Sing,  is  a  terrible  strain  on 
the  human  system. 

Personally,  however,  I  liked  to  be  in  my 
cell,  especially  during  my  first  year  of  solitary 
confinement,  before  my  health  began  to  give 
way ;  for  I  had  my  books  from  the  good 
prison  libraries,  my  pipe  or  cigarettes,  and 
last,  but  not  least,  I  had  a  certain  portion  of 
opium  that  I  used  every  day. 

For  me,  prison  life  had  one  great  advantage. 
It  broke  down  my  health  and  confirmed  me 
for  many  years  in  the  opium  habit,  as  we  shall 
see  ;  but  I  educated  myself  while  in  stir.  Pre- 
vious to  going  to  Sing  Sing  my  education  had 
been  almost  entirely  in  the  line  of  graft ;  but 
in  stir,  I  read  the  English  classics  and  became 
familiar  with  philosophy  and  the  science  of 
[  H2] 


In  Stir. 

medicine  and  learned  something  about  chem- 
istry. 

One  of  my  favorite  authors  was  Voltaire, 
whom  I  read,  of  course,  in  a  translation.  His 
"  Dictionary  "  was  contraband  in  prison  but  I 
read  it  with  profit.  Voltaire  was  certainly  one 
of  the  shrewdest  of  men,  and  as  up  to  snuff  as 
any  cynical  grafter  I  know,  and  yet  he  had  a 
great  love  for  humanity.  He  was  the  philoso- 
pher of  humanity.  Goethe  said  that  Luther 
threw  the  world  back  two  hundred  years,  but 
I  deny  it ;  for  Luther,  like  Voltaire,  pointed 
out  the  ignorance  and  wickedness  of  the 
priests  of  their  day.  These  churchmen  did 
not  understand  the  teachings  of  Christ.  Was 
Voltaire  delusional  ?  The  priests  must  have 
thought  so,  but  they  were  no  judges,  for  they 
were  far  worse  and  less  humane  than  the 
French  revolutionists.  The  latter  killed  out- 
right, but  the  priests  tortured  in  the  name  of 
the  Most  Humane.  I  never  approved  of  the 
methods  of  the  French  revolutionists,  but  cer- 
tainly they  were  gentle  in  comparison  with  the 
priests  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition. 

I  think  that,  in  variety  of  subjects,  Voltaire 
has  no  equal  among  writers.  Shrewd  as  he 
was,  he  had  a  soul,  and  his  moral  courage  was 
[143] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

grand.  His  defense  of  young  Barry,  who  was 
arrested  for  using  language  against  the  church, 
showed  his  kindness  and  breadth  of  mind.  On 
his  arrival  in  Paris,  when  he  was  only  a  strip- 
ling, he  denounced  the  cowardly,  fawning  sy- 
cophants who  surrounded  Louis  XIV,*  and 
wrote  a  sarcastic  poem  on  His  Nibs,  and  was 
confined  in  the  Bastille  for  two  years.  His 
courage,  his  wit,  his  sarcasms,  his  hatred  of 
his  persecutors,  and  his  love  and  kindness, 
stamp  him  as  one  of  the  great,  healthy  intel- 
lects of  mankind.  What  a  clever  book  is 
Candide  !  What  satire  !  What  wit !  As  I 
lay  on  my  cot  how  often  I  laughed  at  his 
caustic  comments  on  humanity  !  And  how  he 
could  hate  !  I  never  yet  met  a  man  of  any 
account  who  was  not  a  good  hater.  I  own 
that  Voltaire  was  ungallant  toward  the  fair 
sex.     But  that  was  his  only  fault. 

I  enjoyed  Victor  Hugo  because  he  could 
create  a  great  character,  and  was  capable  of 
writing  a  story  with  a  plot.  I  rank  him  as  a 
master  of  fiction,  although  I  preferred  his 
experience  as  a  traveller,  to  his  novels,  which 
are  not  real  enough.  Ernest  Renan  was  a 
bracing  and  clever  writer,  but  I  was  sadly  dis- 

*Sic.     (Editor's  Note.) 

[  144] 


In  Stir. 

appointed  in  reading  his  Life  of  Jesus.  I 
expected  to  get  a  true  outline  of  Christ's  time 
and  a  character  sketch  of  the  man  himself, 
but  I  didn't.  I  went  to  the  fountain  for  a 
glass  of  good  wine,  but  got  only  red  lemonade. 

I  liked  Dumas,  and  revelled  in  the  series 
beginning  with  The  Three  Musketeers.  I 
could  not  read  Dumas  now,  however.  I  also 
enjoyed  Gaboriau  and  Du  Boisgobey,  for  they 
are  very  sensational ;  but  that  was  during  my 
first  term  in  stir.  I  could  not  turn  a  page  of 
their  books  now,  for  they  would  seem  idiotic 
to  me.  Balzac  is  a  bird  of  another  feather. 
In  my  opinion  he  was  one  of  the  best  dissec- 
tors of  human  nature  that  the  world  ever  pro- 
duced. Not  even  Shakespeare  was  his  equal. 
His  depth  in  searching  for  motives,  his  dis- 
cernment in  detecting  a  hypocrite,  his  skill  in 
showing  up  women,  with  their  follies,  their 
loves,  their  little  hypocrisies,  their  endear- 
ments, their  malice  and  their  envy  is  unrivalled. 
It  is  right  that  Balzac  should  show  woman 
with  all  her  faults  and  follies  and  virtues,  for 
if  she  did  not  possess  all  these  characteristics, 
how  could  man  adore  her  ? 

In  his  line  I  think  Thackeray  is  as  great  as 
Balzac.  When  I  had  read  Vanity  Fair^  Penden- 
[145] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

nisy  The  New  comes  and  Barry  Lyndon,  I  was 
so  much  interested  that  I  read  anything  of  his 
I  could  lay  my  hands  on,  over  and  over  again. 
With  a  novel  of  Thackeray's  in  my  hand  I 
would  become  oblivious  to  my  surroundings, 
and  long  to  know  something  of  this  writer's 
personality.  I  think  I  formed  his  mental 
make-up  correctly,  for  I  imagined  him  to  be 
gentle  and  humane.  Any  man  with  ability 
and  brains  equal  to  his  could  not  be  otherwise. 
What  a  character  is  Becky  Sharp !  In  her 
way  she  was  as  clever  a  grafter  as  Sheenie 
Annie.  She  did  not  love  Rawdon  as  a  good 
wife  should.  If  she  had  she  would  not  be  the 
interesting  Becky  that  she  is.  She  was  grate- 
ful to  Rawdon  for  three  reasons ;  first,  he  mar- 
ried her ;  second,  he  gave  her  a  glimpse  into 
a  station  in  life  her  soul  longed  for ;  third,  he 
came  from  a  good  family,  and  was  a  soldier 
and  tall,  and  it  is  well-known  that  little  women 
like  big  men.  Then  Rawdon  amused  Becky. 
She  often  grinned  at  his  lack  of  brains.  She 
grinned  at  everything,  and  when  we  learn  that 
Becky  got  religion  at  the  end  of  the  book, 
instead  of  saying,  God  bless  her,  we  only 
grin,  too. 

Pendennis    is   a   healthy  book.     I    always 
[146] 


In  Stir. 

sympathize  with  Pen  and  Laura  in  their  strug- 
gles to  get  on,  and  when  the  baby  was  born  I 
was  wilhng  to  become  Godpapa,  just  for  its 
Mamma's  sake.  The  Newcomes  I  call  Thack- 
eray's masterpiece.  It  is  truer  to  life  than 
any  other  book  I  ever  read.  Take  the  scene 
where  young  Clive  throws  the  glass  of  wine  in 
his  cousin's  face.  The  honest  horror  of  the 
father,  his  indignation  when  old  Captain  Costi- 
gan  uses  bad  language,  his  exit  when  he  hears 
a  song  in  the  Music  Hall — all  this  is  true 
realism.  But  the  scene  that  makes  this  book 
Thackeray's  masterpiece  is  that  where  the  old 
Colonel  is  dying.  The  touching  devotion  of 
Madam  and  Ethel,  the  love  for  old  Tom,  his 
last  word  '^  adsum,''  the  quiet  weeping  of  his 
nurse,  and  the  last  duties  to  the  dead ;  the 
beautiful  tenderness  of  the  two  women,  of  a 
kind  that  makes  the  fair  sex  respected  by  all 
men — I  can  never  forget  this  scene  till  my 
dying  day. 

When  I  was  sick  in  stir  a  better  tonic  than 
the  quack  could  prescribe  was  Thackeray's 
Book  of  Snobs.  Many  is  the  night  I  could 
not  sleep  until  I  had  read  this  book  with  a 
relish.  It  acted  on  me  like  a  bottle  of  good 
wine,  leaving  me  peaceful  after  a  time  of 
[147] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

pleasure.  In  this  book  are  shown  up  the 
little  egotisms  of  the  goslings  and  the  foibles 
of  the  sucklings  in  a  masterly  manner. 

I  read  every  word  Dickens  ever  wrote  ;  and 
I  often  ruminated  in  my  mind  as  to  which  of 
his  works  is  the  masterpiece.  Our  Mutual 
Friend  is  weak  in  the  love  scenes,  but  the 
book  is  made  readable  by  two  characters, 
Noddy  Boffin  and  Silas  Wegg.  Where  Wegg 
reads,  as  he  thinks,  The  Last  of  the  Russians, 
when  the  book  was  The  Decline  and  Fall  Off 
the  Roman  Empire,  there  is  the  quintessence 
of  humor.  Silas's  wooden  leg  and  his  occupa- 
tion of  selling  eggs  would  make  anybody 
smile,  even  a  dip  who  had  fallen  and  had  no 
money  to  square  it. 

The  greatest  character  in  David  Copperfield 
is  Uriah  Heep.  The  prison  scene  where  this 
humble  hypocrite  showed  he  knew  his  Bible 
thoroughly,  and  knew  the  advantage  of  hav- 
ing some  holy  quotations  pat,  reminded  me 
often  of  men  I  have  known  in  Auburn  and 
Sing  Sing  prisons.  Some  hypocritical  jail- 
bird would  dream  that  he  could  succeed  on 
the  outside  by  becoming  a  Sunday  School 
superintendent ;  and  four  of  the  meanest 
thieves  I  ever  knew  got  their  start  in  that 
[148] 


In  Stir. 

way.  Who  has  not  enjoyed  Micawber,  with 
his  frothy  personality  and  straitened  circum- 
stances, and  the  unctions  Barkis. — Poor 
Emily  !  Who  could  blame  her  ?  What  woman 
could  help  liking  Steerforth  ?  It  is  strange 
and  true  that  good  women  are  won  by  men 
they  know  to  be  rascals.  Is  it  the  contrast 
between  Good  and  Evil,  or  is  it  because  the 
ne'er-do-well  has  a  stronger  character  and 
more  magnetic  force  ?  Agnes  was  one  of  the 
best  women  in  the  world.  Contrast  her  with 
David's  first  wife.  Agnes  was  like  a  fine 
violin,  while  Dora  was  like  a  wailing  hurdy- 
gurdy. 

Oliver  Twist  is  Dickens's  strongest  book. 
He  goes  deeper  into  human  nature  there  than 
in  any  other  of  his  writings.  Fagin,  the  Jew, 
is  a  very  strong  character,  but  overdrawn. 
The  picture  of  Fagin's  dens  and  of  the  people 
in  them,  is  true  to  life.  I  have  seen  similar 
gatherings  many  a  time.  The  ramblings  of 
the  Artful  Dodger  are  drawn  from  the  real 
thing,  but  I  never  met  in  real  life  such  a  bru- 
tal character  as  Bill  Sykes ;  and  I  have  met 
some  tough  grafters,  as  the  course  of  this 
book  will  show.  Nancy  Sykes,  however,  is 
true  to  life.  In  her  degradation  she  was  still 
[  H9] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

a  woman.  I  contend  that  a  woman  is  never 
so  low  but  a  man  was  the  cause.  One  pas- 
sage in  the  book  has  often  touched  me,  as  it 
showed  that  Nancy  had  not  lost  her  sex. 
When  she  and  Bill  were  passing  the  prison, 
she  turned  towards  it  and  said  :  "  Bill,  they 
were  fine  fellows  that  died  to-day."  "  Shut 
your  mouth,"  said  Bill.  Now  I  don't  think 
there  is  a  thief  in  the  United  States  who 
would  have  answered  Nancy's  remark  that 
way.  Strong  arm  workers  who  would  beat 
your  brains  out  for  a  few  dollars  would  be 
moved  by  that  touch  of  pity  in  Nancy's  voice. 

But  Oliver  himself  is  the  great  character, 
and  his  story  reminds  me  of  my  own.  The 
touching  incident  in  the  work-house  where  his 
poor  stomach  is  not  full,  and  he  asks  for  a 
second  platter  of  mush  to  the  horror  of  the 
teachers,  is  not  overdrawn.  When  I  was  in 
one  of  our  penal  institutions,  at  a  later  time  of 
my  life,  I  was  ill,  and  asked  for  extra  food ; 
but  my  request  was  looked  upon  as  the  auda- 
city of  a  hardened  villain.  I  had  many  such 
opportunities  to  think  of  Oliver. 

I  always  liked  those  authors  who  wrote  as 
near  life  as  decency  would  permit.  Sterne's 
Tristram  Shandy  has  often  amused  me,  and 
[150] 


In  Stir. 

Tom  Jones ^  Roderick  Random  and  Peregrine 
Pickle  I  have  read  over  and  over  again.  I 
don't  see  why  good  people  object  to  such 
books.  Some  people  are  forever  looking  after 
the  affairs  of  others  and  neglecting  their  own ; 
especially  a  man  whom  I  will  call  Common 
Socks  who  has  put  himself  up  as  a  mentor  for 
over  seventy  millions  of  people.  Let  me  tell 
the  busy  ladies  who  are  afraid  that  such  books 
will  harm  the  morals  of  young  persons  that 
the  more  they  are  cried  down  the  more  they 
will  be  read.  For  that  matter  they  ought  to 
be  read.  Why  object  to  the  girl  of  sixteen 
reading  such  books  and  not  to  the  woman  of 
thirty-five?  I  think  their  mental  strength  is 
about  equal.  Both  are  romantic  and  the 
woman  of  thirty-five  will  fall  in  love  as  quickly 
as  the  girl  of  sixteen.  I  think  a  woman  is 
always  a  girl ;  at  least,  it  has  been  so  in  my 
experience.  One  day  I  was  grafting  in  Phila- 
delphia. It  was  raining,  and  a  woman  was 
walking  along  on  Walnut  Street.  She  slipped 
on  the  wet  sidewalk  and  fell.  I  ran  to  her 
assistance,  and  saw  that  her  figure  was  slim 
and  girlish  and  that  she  had  a  round,  rosy  face, 
but  that  her  hair  was  pure  white.  When  I 
asked  her  if  she  was  hurt,  she  said  "  yes,"  but 
[151] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

when  I  said  "  Let  me  be  your  grandson  and 
support  you  on  my  way,"  I  put  my  foot  into 
it,  for,  horrors !  the  look  she  gave  me,  as  she 
said  in  an  icy  voice,  "I  was  never  married!" 
I  wondered  what  manner  of  men  there  were 
in  Philadelphia,  and,  to  square  myself,  I  said : 
"  Never  married !  and  with  a  pair  of  such 
pretty  ankles  !  "  Then  she  gave  me  a  look, 
thanked  me,  and  walked  away  as  jauntily  as 
she  ever  did  in  her  life,  though  she  must  have 
been  suffering  agonies  from  her  sprained 
ankle.  Since  that  time  I  have  been  convinced 
that  they  of  the  gentle  sex  are  girls  from 
fifteen  to  eighty. 

I  read  much  of  Lever,  too,  while  I  was  in 
stir.  His  pictures  of  Ireland  and  of  the  noisy 
strife  in  Parliament,  the  description  of  Dublin 
with  its  spendthrifts  and  excited  populace,  the 
gamblers  and  the  ruined  but  gay  young  gentle- 
men, all  mixed  up  with  the  grandeur  of  Ire- 
land, are  the  work  of  a  master.  I  could  only 
compare  this  epoch  of  worn-out  regalia  with  a 
St.  Patrick's  day  parade  twenty  years  ago  in 
the  fourth  ward  of  Manhattan. 

Other  books  I  read  in  stir  were  Gibbon's 
Roman  Empire^  Carlyle's  Frederick  the  Greats 
and  many  of  the  English  poets.  I  read 
[152] 


In  Stir. 

Wordsworth,  Gray  and  Goldsmith,  but  I  Hked 
Tom  Moore  and  Robert  Burns  better.  The 
greatest  of  all  the  poets,  however,  in  my  esti- 
mation, is  Byron.  His  loves  were  many,  his 
adventures  daring,  and  his  language  was  as 
broad  and  independent  as  his  mind. 


[153] 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
In  Stir  (continued). 

Sing  Sing  was  overflowing  with  convicts, 
and  after  I  had  been  there  nine  months,  I  and 
a  number  of  others  were  transferred  to  Auburn 
penitentiary.  There  I  found  the  cells  drier, 
and  better  than  at  Sing  Sing,  but  the  food  not 
so  good.  The  warden  was  not  liked  by  the 
majority  of  the  men,  but  I  admired  him  for 
two  things.  He  believed  in  giving  us  good 
bread ;  and  he  did  not  give  a  continental  what 
came  into  the  prison,  whether  it  was  a  needle 
or  a  cannister,  as  long  as  it  was  kept  in  the 
cell  and  not  used. 

It  was  in  Auburn  stir  that  opium  grew  to 
be  a  habit  with  me.  I  used  to  give  the  keep- 
ers who  were  running  the  Underground  one 
dollar  of  every  five  that  were  sent  me,  and 
they  appreciated  my  kindness  and  kept  me  sup- 
plied with  the  drug.  What  part  the  hop  began 
to  play  in  my  life  may  be  seen  from  the  routine 
of  my  days  at  Auburn ;  particularly  at  those 
periods  when  there  was  no  work  to  be  done. 
[154] 


In  Stir, 

After  rising  in  the  morning  I  would  clean 
out  my  cell,  and  turn  up  my  bed  and  blan- 
kets ;  then  I  went  to  breakfast,  then  if  there 
was  no  work  to  do,  back  to  my  cell,  where  I 
ate  a  small  portion  of  opium,  and  sometimes 
read  the  daily  paper,  which  was  also  contra- 
band. It  is  only  the  stool-pigeons,  those  con- 
victs who  have  money,  or  the  cleverest  among 
the  rascals,  who  get  many  of  these  privileges. 
After  I  had  had  my  opium  and  the  newspaper 
I  would  exercise  with  dumb-bells  and  think  or 
read  in  my  cell.  Then  I  would  have  a  plunge 
bath  and  a  nap,  which  would  take  me  up  to 
dinner  time.  After  dinner  I  would  read  in 
my  cell  again  until  three  o'clock,  when  I  would 
go  to  the  bucket-shop  or  exercise  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  yard,  in  lock  step,  with  the  others ; 
then  back  to  the  cell,  taking  with  me  bread 
and  a  cup  of  coffee  made  out  of  burnt  bread 
crust,  for  my  supper.  In  the  evening  I  would 
read  and  smoke  until  my  light  went  out,  and 
would  wind  up  the  day  with  a  large  piece  of 
opium,  which  grew  larger,  as  time  passed. 

For  a  long  time  I  was  fairly  content  with 

what  was  practically  solitary  confinement.     I 

had   my  books,   my  pipe,  cigarettes    and  my 

regular  supply  of  hop.     Whether  I  worked  in 

[155] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

the  daytime  or  not  I  would  usually  spend  my 
evenings  in  the  same  way.  I  would  lie  on  my 
cot  and  sometimes  a  thought  like  the  follow- 
ing would  come  to  me :  "  Yes,  I  have  stripes 
on.  When  I  am  released  perhaps  some  one 
will  pity  me,  particularly  the  women.  They 
may  despise  and  avoid  me,  most  likely  they 
will.  But  I  don't  care.  All  I  want  is  to  get 
their  wad  of  money.  In  the  meantime  I  have 
my  opium  and  my  thoughts  and  am  just  as 
happy  as  the  millionaire,  unless  he  has  a 
narcotic." 

After  the  drug  had  begun  to  work  I  would 
frequently  fall  into  a  deep  sleep  and  not  wake 
until  one  or  two  o'clock  the  following  morn- 
ing ;  then  I  would  turn  on  my  light,  peer 
through  my  cell  door,  and  try  to  see  through 
the  little  window  out  in  the  corridor,  A  pecu- 
liar nervousness  often  came  over  me  at  this 
hour,  particularly  if  the  weather  had  been 
rainy,  and  my  imagination  would  run  on  a 
ship-wreck  very  often,  or  on  some  other  pain- 
ful subject ;  and  I  might  tell  the  story  to  my- 
self in  jingles,  or  jot  it  down  on  a  piece  of 
paper.  Then  my  whole  being  would  be  quiet. 
A  gentle,  soothing  melancholy  would  steal 
upon  me.  Often  my  imagination  was  so  power- 
[156] 


In  Stir. 

fully  affected  that  I  could  really  see  the  events 
of  my  dream.  I  could  see  the  ship  tossing 
about  on  waves  mountain  high.  Then  and 
only  then  I  was  positive  I  had  a  soul.  I  was 
in  such  a  state  of  peace  that  I  could  not  bear 
that  any  human  being  should  suffer.  At  first 
the  scenes  before  my  imagination  would  be 
most  harrowing,  with  great  loss  of  life,  but 
when  one  of  the  gentle  sex  appeared  vividly 
before  me  a  shudder  passed  over  me,  and  I 
would  seek  consolation  in  jingles  such  as  the 
following : 

A  gallant  bark  set  sail  one  day 

For  a  port  beyond  the  sea, 

The  Captain  had  taken  his  fair  young  bride 

To  bear  him  company. 

This  little  brown  lass 

Was  of  Puritan  stock. 

Her  eyes  were  the  brightest  e'er  seen. 

They  never  came  back  ; 

The  ship  it  was  wrecked 

In  a  storm  in  the  old  Gulf  Stream. 

Two  years  had  passed,  then  a  letter  came 

To  a  maid  in  a  New  England  town. 

It  began  Darling  Kate,  it  ended  Your  Jack, 

I  am  alive  in  a  foreign  land. 

The  Captain,  his  gentle  young  wife  and  your  own 

Were  saved  by  that  hand  unseen, 

[157] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

But  the  rest they  went  down 

In  that  terrible  storm 

That  night  in  the  old  Gulf  Stream. 

But  these  pleasures  would  soon  leave  me, 
and  I  would  grow  very  restless.  My  only 
resource  was  another  piece  of  opium.  Some- 
times I  awoke  much  excited,  paced  my  cell 
rapidly  and  felt  like  tearing  down  the  door. 
Sometimes  a  book  would  quiet  me.  The  best 
soother  I  had  was  the  most  beautiful  poem  in 
the  English  language — Walt  Whitman's  Ode 
To  Death.  When  I  read  this  poem,  I  often 
imagined  I  was  at  the  North  Pole,  and  that 
strange  shapes  in  the  clouds  beckoned  me  to 
come  to  them.  I  used  to  forget  myself,  and 
read  aloud  and  was  entirely  oblivious  to  my 
surroundings,  until   I  was  brought  to  myself 

by  the  night  guard  shouting,  "  What  in is 

the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

After  getting  excited  in  this  way  I  usually 
needed  another  dose  of  hop.  I  have  noticed 
that  the  difference  between  opium  and  alcohol 
is  that  the  latter  is  a  disintegrator  and  tears 
apart,  while  the  opium  is  a  subtle  underminer. 
Opium,  for  a  long  time  anyway,  stimulates  the 
intelligence ;  while  the  reverse  is  true  of  alco- 
hol. It  was  under  the  influence  of  opium 
[158] 


In  Stir, 

that  I  began  to  read  philosophy.  I  read 
Hume  and  Locke,  and  partly  understood  them, 
I  think,  though  I  did  not  know  that  Locke  is 
pronounced  in  only  one  syllable  till  many 
years  after  I  had  read  and  re-read  parts  of 
The  Human  Understanding.  It  was  not  only 
the  opium,  but  my  experience  on  the  outside, 
that  made  me  eager  for  philosophy  and  the 
deeper  poetry ;  for  a  grafter's  wits,  if  they 
don't  get  away  from  him  altogether,  become 
keen  through  his  business,  since  he  lives  by 
them.  It  was  philosophy,  and  the  spectacle  of 
men  going  suddenly  and  violently  insane  all 
about  me,  that  led  me  first  to  think  of  self- 
control,  though  I  did  not  muster  enough  to 
throw  off  the  opium  habit  till  many  years 
afterwards.  I  began  to  think  of  will-power 
about  this  time,  and  I  knew  it  was  an  acquired 
virtue,  like  truth  and  honesty.  I  think,  from 
a  moral  standpoint,  that  I  lived  as  good  a  life 
in  prison  as  anybody  on  the  outside,  for  at 
least  I  tried  to  overcome  myself.  It  was  life 
or  death,  or,  a  thousand  times  worse,  an  in- 
sane asylum.  Opium  led  me  to  books  besides 
those  on  philosophy,  which  eventually  helped 
to  cure  me.  At  this  time  I  was  reading  Bal- 
zac, Shakespeare,  Huxley,  Tyndall  and  Lav- 
[159] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

ater.  One  poem  of  Shakespeare's  touched  me 
more  than  any  other  poem  I  ever  read — The 
Rape  of  Lucrece.  It  was  reading  such  as  this 
that  gave  me  a  broader  view,  and  I  began  to 
think  that  this  was  a  terrible  life  I  was  lead- 
ing. But,  as  the  reader  will  see,  I  did  not 
know  what  hell  was  until  several  years  later. 

I  had  been  in  stir  about  four  years  on  my 
first  bit  when  I  began  to  appreciate  how  terri- 
ble a  master  I  had  come  under.  Of  course,  to 
a  certain  extent,  the  habit  had  been  forced 
upon  me.  After  a  man  has  had  for  several 
years  bad  food,  little  air  and  exercise,  no  nat- 
ural companionship,  particularly  with  the  other 
sex,  from  whom  he  is  entirely  cut  off,  he  really 
needs  a  stimulant.  Many  men  fall  into  the 
vilest  of  habits.  I  found,  for  my  part,  that 
only  opium  would  calm  me.  It  takes  only  a 
certain  length  of  time  for  almost  all  convicts 
to  become  broken  in  health,  addicted  to  one 
form  or  another  of  stimulant  which  in  the  long 
run  pulls  them  down  completely.  Diseases  of 
various  kinds,  insanity  and  death,  are  the  re- 
sult. But  before  the  criminal  is  thus  released, 
he  grows  desperate  in  the  extreme ;  particu- 
larly if  he  resorts  to  opium,  for  that  drug 
makes  one  reckless.  The  hop  fiend  never 
[i6o] 


In  Stir. 

takes  consequences  into  consideration.  Un- 
der its  influence  I  became  very  irritable  and 
unruly,  and  would  take  no  back  talk  from  the 
keepers.  They  and  the  stool-pigeons  began 
to  be  afraid  of  me.  I  would  not  let  them 
pound  me  in  any  way,  and  I  often  got  into 
a  violent  fight. 

As  long  as  I  had  my  regular  allowance  of 
opium,  which  in  the  fourth  year  of  my  term 
was  about  twenty  grains  a  day,  I  was  peace- 
able enough.  It  was  when  I  began  to  lessen 
the  amount,  with  the  desire  to  give  it  up,  that 
I  became  so  irritable  and  violent.  The  strain 
of  reform,  even  in  this  early  and  unsuccessful 
attempt,  was  terrible.  At  times  I  used  to  go 
without  the  full  amount  for  several  days ;  but 
then  I  would  relapse  and  go  on  a  debauch 
until  I  was  almost  unconscious.  After  recov- 
ery, I  would  make  another  resolution,  only  to 
fall  again. 

But  my  life  in  stir  was  not  all  that  of  the 
solitary ;  there  were  means,  even  when  I  was 
in  the  shop,  of  communicating  with  my  fellow 
convicts  ;  generally  by  notes,  as  talking  was 
forbidden.  Notes,  too,  were  contraband,  but 
we  found  means  of  sending  them  through  cons 
working  in  the  hall.  Sometimes  good-natured 
[i6i] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

or  avaricious  keepers  would  carry  them ;  but 
as  a  rule  a  convict  did  not  like  to  trust  a  note 
to  a  keeper.  He  was  afraid  that  the  screw 
would  read  it,  whereas  it  was  a  point  of  honor 
with  a  convict  to  deliver  the  note  unread. 
The  contents  of  these  notes  were  usually 
news  about  our  girls  or  pals,  which  we  had 
received  through  visitors — rare,  indeed  ! — or 
letters.  By  the  same  means  there  was  much 
betting  done  on  the  races,  baseball  games  and 
prize  fights.  We  could  send  money,  too,  or 
opium,  in  the  same  way,  to  a  friend  in  need  ; 
and  we  never  required  an  I.  O.  U. 

We  were  allowed  to  receive  visitors  from 
the  outside  once  every  two  months  ;  also  a 
box  could  be  delivered  to  us  at  the  same  inter- 
vals of  time.  My  friends,  especially  my 
mother  and  Ethel,  sent  me  things  regularly, 
and  came  to  see  me.  They  used  to  send  me 
soap,  tooth  brushes  and  many  other  delicacies, 
for  even  a  tooth  brush  is  a  delicacy  in  prison. 
Ethel  stuck  to  me  for  three  years  and  visited 
me  regularly  during  that  period.  Then  her 
visits  ceased,  and  I  heard  that  she  had  married. 
I  couldn't  blame  her,  but  I  felt  bad  about  it 
all  the  same. 

But  my  mother  came  as  often  as  the  two 
[162] 


In  Stir, 

months  rolled  by ;  not  only  during  this  first 
term,  but  during  all  my  bits  in  stir.  Certainly 
she  has  stuck  to  me  through  thick  and  thin. 
She  has  been  my  only  true  friend.  If  she 
had  fallen  away  from  me,  I  couldn't  have 
blamed  her ;  she  would  only  have  gone  with 
the  rest  of  the  world ;  but  she  didn't.  She 
was  good  not  only  to  me,  but  to  my  friends, 
and  she  had  pity  for  everybody  in  stir.  I  re- 
member how  she  used  to  talk  about  the  rut 
worn  in  the  stone  pavement  at  Sing  Sing, 
where  the  men  paced  up  and  down.  "  Talk 
about  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ! "  she  used  to  say. 
When  a  man  is  in  stir  he  begins  to  see 
what  an  ungrateful  brute  he  has  been ;  and 
he  begins  to  separate  true  friends  from  false 
ones.  He  thinks  of  the  mother  he  neglected 
for  supposed  friends  of  both  sexes,  who  are 
perhaps  friendly  at  the  beginning  of  his  sen- 
tence, but  soon  desert  him  if  he  have  a  num- 
ber of  years  to  serve.  Long  after  all  others 
have  ceased  coming  to  see  him,  his  old  mother, 
bowed  and  sad,  will  trudge  up  the  walk  from 
the  station  to  visit  her  thoughtless  and  erring 
son  !  She  carries  on  her  arm  a  heavy  basket 
of  delicacies  for  the  son  who  is  detested  by  all 
good  citizens,  and  in  her  heart  there  is  still 
[163] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

hope  for  her  boy.  She  has  waited  many  years 
and  she  will  continue  to  wait.  What  memo- 
ries come  to  the  mother  as  she  sees  the  man- 
sion of  woes  on  the  Hudson  looming  up 
before  her!  Her  son  is  again  a  baby  in  her 
imagination ;  or  a  young  fellow,  before  he 
began  to  tread  the  rocky  path ! — They  soon 
part,  for  half  an  hour  is  all  that  is  given,  but 
they  will  remember  forever  the  mother's  kiss, 
the  son's  good-bye,  the  last  choking  words  of 
love  and  familiar  advice,  as  she  says  :  '*  Trust 
in  God,  my  lad." 

After  one  of  my  mother's  visits  I  used  to 
have  more  sympathy  for  my  fellow  convicts. 
I  was  always  a  keen  observer,  and  in  the  shops 
or  at  mess  time,  and  when  we  were  exercising 
together  in  lock  step,  or  working  about  the 
yard  or  in  the  halls,  I  used  to  "  feel  out "  my 
brother  "cons",  often  with  a  kindly  motive. 
I  grew  very  expert  in  telling  when  a  friend 
was  becoming  insane ;  for  imprisonment  leads 
to  insanity,  as  everybody  knows.  Many  a 
time  a  man  I  knew  in  stir  would  grow  nervous 
or  absent-minded,  then  suspicious,  and  finally 
would  be  sent  to  the  madhouse  at  Dannemora 
or  Matteawan. 

For  instance,  take  a  friend  of  mine  named 
[164] 


In  Stir. 

Billy.  He  was  doing  a  bit  of  ten  years.  In 
the  fifth  year  of  his  sentence  I  noticed  that  he 
was  brooding,  and  I  asked  him  what  was  the 
matter. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  my  wife  is 
going  outside  of  me." 

"  You  are  not  positive,  are  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

''Well,"  he  answered,  "she  visited  me  the 
other  day,  and  she  was  looking  good  (prosper- 
ous). My  son  was  with  her,  and  he  looked 
good,  too.  She  gave  me  five  dollars  and 
some  delicacies.  But  she  never  had  five  dol- 
lars when  I  was  on  the  outside." 

"  She's  working,"  said  I,  trying  to  calm  him. 

"  No  ;  she  has  got  a  father  and  mother,"  he 
replied,  "  and  she  is  living  with  them." 

"  Billy,"  I  continued,  "  how  long  have  you 
been  in  stir  ?  " 

"  Growing  on  six  years,"  he  said. 

"Billy,"  I  proceeded,  "what  would  you  do 
if  you  were  on  the  outside  and  she  was  in 
prison  for  six  years  ? " 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  I'd  have  to  give  my- 
self some  rope." 

"  Philosophers  claim  that  it  is  just  as  hard 
for  a  woman  to  live  alone  as  for  a  man,"  I 

[165] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

said.     "You're   unreasonable,    Billy.     Surely 
you  can't  blame  her." 

Billy's  case  is  an  instance  of  how,  when  a 
convict  has  had  bad  food,  bad  air  and  an 
unnatural  routine  for  some  time,  he  begins  to 
borrow  trouble.  He  grows  anaemic  and  then 
is  on  the  road  to  insanity.  If  he  has  a  wife 
he  almost  always  grows  suspicious  of  her, 
though  he  does  not  speak  about  it  until  he 
has  been  a  certain  number  of  years  in  prison. 
It  was  not  long  after  the  above  conversation 
took  place  that  Billy  was  sent  to  the  insane 
asylum  at  Matteawan. 

Sometimes,  after  a  man  has  begun  to  grow 
insane,  he  will  show  it  by  reticence,  rather 
than  by  talkativeness,  according  to  his  dispo- 
sition* One  of  my  intimate  friends,  in  stir 
much  longer  than  I,  was  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine, witty  and  a  good  story  teller.  His 
laugh  was  contagious  and  we  all  liked  to  see 
him.  He  was  one  of  the  best  night  prowlers 
(burglars)  in  the  profession,  and  had  many 
other  gifts.  After  he  had  been  in  stir,  how- 
ever, for  a  few  years,  he  grew  reticent  and 
suspicious,  thought  that  everybody  was  a 
stool-pigeon,  and  died  a  raving  maniac  a  few 
years  later  at  Matteawan. 
[i66] 


In  Stir, 

Sometimes  a  convict  will  grow  so  nervous 
that  he  will  attempt  to  escape,  even  when 
there  is  no  chance,  or  will  sham  insanity.  An 
acquaintance  of  mine,  Louis,  who  had  often 
grafted  with  me  when  we  were  on  the  outside, 
told  me  one  day  he  did  not  expect  to  live  his 
bit  out.  When  confined  a  man  generally 
thinks  a  lot  about  his  condition,  reads  a  book 
on  medicine  and  imagines  he  has  every  dis- 
ease the  book  describes.  Louis  was  in  this 
state,  and  he  consulted  me  and  two  others  as 
to  whether  he  ought  not  to  "shoot  a  bug" 
(sham  insanity)  ;  and  so  get  transferred  to  the 
hospital.  One  advised  him  to  attack  a  keeper 
and  demand  his  baby  back.  But  as  Billy  had 
big,  black  eyes  and  a  cadaverous  face,  I  told 
him  he'd  better  shoot  the  melancholy  bug ;  for 
he  could  do  that  better.  Accordingly  in  the 
morning  when  the  men  were  to  go  to  work  in 
the  stone  yard,  Billy  appeared  in  the  natural 
(naked).  He  had  been  stalled  off  by  two 
friends  until  he  had  reached  the  yard.  There 
the  keepers  saw  him,  and  as  they  liked  him, 
they  gently  took  him  to  the  hospital.  He  was 
pronounced  incurably  insane  by  two  experts, 
and  transferred  to  the  madhouse.  The  change 
of  air  was  so  beneficial  that  Louis  speedily  re- 
[167] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

covered  his  senses.  At  least,  the  doctors 
thought  so  when  he  was  discovered  trying  to 
make  his  elegant  (escape) ;  and  he  was  sent 
back  to  stir. 

As  a  rule,  however,  those  who  attempted  to 
sham  insanity  failed.  They  were  usually  lack- 
ing in  originality.  At  any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night  the  whole  prison  might  be  aroused  by 
some  convict  breaking  up  house,  as  it  was 
called  when  a  man  tried  to  shoot  the  bug.  He 
might  break  everything  in  his  cell,  and  yell  so 
loud  that  the  other  convicts  in  the  cells  near 
by  would  join  in  and  make  a  horrible  din. 
Some  would  curse,  and  some  laugh  or  howl. 
If  it  was  at  night  and  they  had  been  awakened 
out  of  an  opium  sleep,  they  would  damn  him 
a  thousand  miles  deep.  His  friends,  however, 
who  knew  that  he  was  acting,  would  plug  his 
game  along  by  talking  about  his  insanity  in 
the  presence  of  stool-pigeons.  These  latter 
would  tell  the  keepers  that  he  was  buggy  (in- 
sane), and,  if  there  was  not  a  blow,  he  might 
be  sent  to  the  hospital.  Before  that  happened, 
however,  he  had  generally  demolished  all  his 
furniture.  The  guards  would  go  to  his  cell, 
and  chain  him  up  in  the  Catholic  chapel  until 
he  could  be  examined  by  the  doctor.  War- 
[i68] 


In  Stir. 

den  Sage  was  a  humane  man,  and  used  to  go 
to  the  chapel  himself  and  try  to  quiet  the  fake 
lunatic,  and  give  him  dainties  from  his  own 
table.  During  the  night  the  fake  had  historic 
company,  for  painted  on  the  walls  were,  on 
one  side  of  him,  Jesus,  and  on  the  other,  Ju- 
das and  Mary  Magdalene. 

A  favorite  method  of  shooting  the  bug,  and 
a  rather  difficult  one  for  the  doctors  to  detect, 
was  that  of  hearing  voices  in  one's  cell.  This 
is  more  dangerous  for  the  convict  than  for 
anybody  else,  for  when  a  fake  tries  to  imagine 
he  hears  voices,  he  usually  begins  to  really 
believe  he  does,  and  then  from  a  fake  he  be- 
comes a  genuine  freak.  Another  common 
fake  is  to  tell  the  keeper  that  you  have  a  snake 
in  your  arm,  and  then  take  a  knife  and  try  to 
cut  it  out ;  but  it  requires  nerve  to  carry  this 
fake  through.  Sometimes  the  man  who  wants 
to  make  the  prison  hospital  merely  fakes  or- 
dinary illness.  If  he  has  a  screw  or  a  doctor 
"  right "  he  may  stay  for  months  in  the  com- 
paratively healthy  hospital  at  Sing  Sing, 
where  he  can  loaf  all  day,  and  get  better  food 
than  at  the  public  mess.  It  is  as  a  rule  only 
the  experienced  guns  who  are  clever  enough 
to  work  these  little  games. 
[169] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

For  faking,  conversing,  loafing  in  the  shop, 
and  for  many  other  forbidden  things,  we  were 
often  punished,  though  the  screws  as  often 
winked  at  small  misdemeanors.  At  Sing  Sing 
they  used  to  hang  us  up  by  the  wrists  some- 
times until  we  fainted.  Auburn  had  a  jail, 
now  used  as  the  condemned  cells,  where  there 
was  no  bed  and  no  light.  In  this  place  the 
man  to  be  punished  would  remain  from  four 
to  ten  days  and  live  on  ten  ounces  of  bread 
and  half  a  jug  of  water  a  day.  In  addition, 
the  jail  was  very  damp,  worse  even  than  the 
cells  at  Sing  Sing,  where  I  knew  many  con- 
victs who  contracted  consumption  of  the  lungs 
and  various  kidney  complaints. 

Indeed,  a  great  deal  of  dying  goes  on  in 
State's  prison.  During  my  first  term  it  seemed 
as  if  three  niggers  died  to  every  white  man. 
A  dozen  of  us  working  around  the  front  would 
comment  on  the  "stiffs"  when  they  were  car- 
ried out.  One  would  ask,  "Who's  dead?" 
The  reply  might  be,  "  Only  a  nigger."  One 
day  I  was  talking  in  the  front  with  a  hall- 
room  man  when  a  stiff  was  put  in  the  wagon. 
"  Who's  dead  ?  "  I  asked.  The  hall-man  wanted 
to  bet  it  was  a  nigger.  I  bet  him  a  dollar  it 
was  a  white  man,  and  then  asked  the  hospital 


In  Stir. 

nurse,  who  said  it  was  not  a  nigger,  but  an 
old  pal  of  mine,  named  Jerry  Donovan.  I  felt 
sore  and  would  not  accept  the  money  I  had 
won.  Poor  Jerry  and  I  did  house-work  to- 
gether for  three  months,  some  of  which  I  have 
told  of,  and  he  was  a  good  fellow,  and  a  sure 
and  reliable  grafter.  And  now  he  had  "  gone 
up  the  escape,"  and  was  being  carried  to  the 
little  graveyard  on  the  side  of  the  hill  where 
only  an  iron  tag  would  mark  his  place  of 
repose. 

My  intelligence  was  naturally  good,  and 
when  I  began  to  get  some  education  I  felt 
myself  superior  to  many  of  my  companions  in 
stir.  I  was  not  alone  in  this  feeling,  for  in 
prison  there  are  many  social  cliques ;  though 
fewer  than  on  the  outside.  Men  who  have 
been  high  up  and  have  held  responsible  posi- 
tions when  at  liberty  make  friends  in  stir  with 
men  they  formerly  would  not  have  trusted  as 
their  boot-blacks.  The  professional  thieves 
usually  keep  together  as  much  as  possible  in 
prison,  or  communicate  together  by  means  of 
notes ;  though  sometimes  they  associate  with 
men  who,  not  professional  grafters,  have  been 
sent  up  for  committing  some  big  forgery,  or 
other  big  swindle.  The  reason  for  this  is 
[171] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

business;  for  the  gun  generally  has  friends 
among  the  politicians,  and  he  wants  to  asso- 
ciate while  in  stir  only  with  others  who  have 
influence.  It  is  the  guns  who  are  usually 
trusted  by  the  screws  in  charge  of  the  Under- 
ground Tunnel,  for  the  professional  thief  is 
less  likely  to  squeal  than  the  novice.  There- 
fore, the  big  forger  who  has  stolen  thousands, 
and  may  be  a  man  of  ability  and  education 
appreciates  the  friendship  of  the  professional 
pickpocket  who  can  do  him  little  favors,  such 
as  railroading  his  mail  through  the  Under- 
ground, and  providing  him  with  newspapers, 
or  a  bottle  of  booze. 

The  pull  of  the  professional  thief  with  out- 
side politicians  often  procures  him  the  respect 
and  consideration  of  the  keepers.  One  day  a 
convict,  named  Ed  White,  was  chinning  with 
an  Irish  screw,  an  old  man  who  had  a  family 
to  support.  Jokes  in  stir  lead  to  friendship, 
and  when  the  keeper  told  Ed  that  he  was 
looking  for  a  job  for  his  daughter,  who  was  a 
stenographer,  Ed  said  he  thought  he  could 
place  her  in  a  good  position.  The  old  screw 
laughed  and  said;  "You  loafer,  if  you  were 
made  to  carry  a  hod  you  wouldn't  be  a  split- 
ting matches  in  stir."  But  Ed  meant  what  he 
[172] 


In  Stir. 

had  said,  and  wrote  to  the  famous  Tammany 
poHtlcian,  Mr.  Wet  Coin,  who  gave  the  girl  a 
position  as  stenographer  at  a  salary  of  fourteen 
dollars  a  week.  The  old  screw  took  his 
daughter  to  New  York,  and  when  he  returned 
to  Auburn  he  began  to  "Mister"  Ed.  "I 
c'lare  to  God,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  out  of  you.  Here  you  are  eating  rotten 
hash,  cooped  up  like  a  wild  animal,  with 
stripes,  when  you  might  be  making  twelve  to 
fifteen  dollars  a  week."  Ed  replied,  sarcas- 
tically, "  That  would  about  keep  me  in  cigar 
money." 

One  of  the  biggest  men  I  knew  in  stir  was 
Jim  A.  McBlank,  at  one  time  chief  of  police 
and  Mayor  of  Coney  Island.  He  was  sent  to 
Sing  Sing  for  his  repeating  methods  at  elec- 
tion, at  which  game  he  was  A  No.  i.  He  got 
so  many  repeaters  down  to  the  island  that 
they  were  compelled  to  register  as  living  un- 
der fences,  in  dog  kennels,  tents,  or  any  old 
place.  There  was  much  excitement  in  the 
prison  when  the  Lord  of  Coney  Island  was 
shown  around  the  stir  by  Principal  Keeper 
Connoughton.  He  was  a  good  mechanic,  and 
soon  had  a  gang  of  men  working  under  him  ; 
though  he  was  the  hardest  worker  of  them  all. 
[173] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

After  he  had  been  there  awhile  the  riff-raff  of 
of  the  prison,  though  they  had  never  heard 
the  saying  that  famiUarity  breeds  contempt, 
dropped  calHng  him  Mr.  McBlank,  and  saluted 
him  as  plain  Jimmy.  He  was  never  in  touch, 
however,  with  the  majority  of  the  convicts, 
for  he  was  too  close  to  the  authorities  ;  and 
the  men  believe  that  convicts  can  not  be  on 
friendly  terms  with  the  powers  that  be  unless 
they  are  stool-pigeons.  Another  thing  that 
made  the  *'  cons "  dislike  the  Mayor  was  the 
fact,  that,  when  he  was  chief  of  police,  he  had 
settled  a  popular  dip  named  Feeley  for  ten 
years  and  a  half.  The  very  worst  thing 
against  him,  however,  was  his  private  refriger- 
ator in  which  he  kept  butter,  condensed  milk 
and  other  luxuries,  which  he  did  not  share 
with  the  other  convicts.  One  day  a  young 
convict  named  Sammy,  tried  to  beat  Sing 
Sing.  He  bricked  himself  up  in  the  wall, 
leaving  a  movable  opening  at  the  bottom. 
While  waiting  a  chance  to  escape  Sammy  used 
to  sally  forth  from  his  hiding-place  and  steal 
something  good  from  McBlank's  box.  One 
night,  while  helping  himself  to  the  Mayor's 
delicacies,  he  thought  he  heard  a  keeper,  and 
hastily  plunging  his  arm  into  the  refrigerator 
[174] 


In  Stir. 

he  made  away  with  a  large  piece  of  butter. 
What  did  the  ex-Chief  of  police  do  but  report 
the  loss  of  his  butter  to  the  screws  which  put 
them  next  to  the  fact  that  the  convict  they 
had  been  looking  for  for  nine  nights  was  still 
in  the  stir.  The  next  night  they  would  have 
rung  the  *' all-right"  bell,  and  given  up  the 
search,  and  indeed,  they  rang  the  bell,  but 
watched  ;  and  when  Sammy,  thinking  he  could 
now  go  to  New  York,  came  out  of  his  hiding 
place,  he  was  caught.  When  the  story  cir- 
culated in  the  prison  all  kinds  of  vengeance 
were  vowed  against  McBlank,  who  was  much 
frightened.  I  heard  him  say  that  he  would 
rather  have  lost  his  right  arm  than  see  the  boy 
caught.  What  a  come-down  for  a  man  who 
could  throw  his  whole  city  for  any  state  or 
national  candidate  at  election  time,  to  be  com- 
pelled to  apologize  as  McBlank  was,  to  the 
lowest  element  in  prison.  Here  indeed  was 
the  truth  of  that  old  saying  :  pride  goeth  before 
a  fall. 

One  of  the  best  liked  of  the  convicts  I  met 
during  my  first  bit  was  Ferdinand  Ward,  who 
got  two  years  for  wrecking  the  firm  in  which 
General  Grant  and  his  son  were  partners. 
He  did  many  a  kindness  in  stir  to  those  who 
[175] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

were  tough  and  had  few  friends.  Another 
great  favorite  was  Johnny  Hope,  son  of  Jimmy 
Hope,  who  stole  three  millions  from  the 
Manhattan  Bank.  The  father  got  away,  and 
Johnny,  who  was  innocent,  was  nailed  by  a 
copper  looking  for  a  reputation,  and  settled 
for  twenty  years  in  Sing  Sing,  because  he  was 
his  father's  son  and  had  the  misfortune  to 
meet  an  ambitious  copper.  When  Johnny 
had  been  in  prison  about  ten  years,  the  in- 
spector, who  was  the  former  copper,  went  to 
the  Governor,  and  said  he  was  convinced  that 
the  boy  was  innocent.  But  how  about  young 
Hope's  wrecked  life  ?  Johnny's  father,  indeed, 
was  a  well-known  grafter  whom  I  met  in 
Auburn,  where  we  worked  together  for  a 
while  in  the  broom-shop.  He  was  much  older 
than  I,  and  used  to  give  me  advice. 

'*  Don't  ever  do  a  day's  work  in  your  life, 
my  boy,"  he  would  say,  "  unless  you  can't 
help  it.  You  are  too  intelligent  to  be  a 
drudge." 

Another  common  remark  of  his  was  :  "  Trust 
no  convict,"  and  a  third  was  :  "  It  is  as  easy 
to  steal  five  thousand  dollars  as  it  is  to  steal 
five  dollars." 

Old  man  Hope  had  stolen  millions  and 
[176] 


In  Stir. 

ought  to  know  what  he  was  talking  about.  In 
personal  appearance  he  was  below  the  medium 
height,  had  light  gray  hair  and  as  mild  a  pair 
of  eyes  as  I  ever  saw  in  man  or  woman.  I 
ranked  him  as  a  manly  old  fellow,  and  he  was 
an  idol  among  the  small  crooks,  though  he  did 
not  have  much  to  do  with  them.  He  seemed 
to  like  to  talk  to  me,  partly  because  I  never 
talked  graft,  and  he  detested  such  talk  particu- 
larly among  prison  acquaintances.  He  re- 
ferred one  day  to  a  pick  pocket  in  stir  who  was 
always  airing  what  he  knew  about  the  graft. 
*'  He's  tiresome,"  said  old  Hope.  "  He  is  al- 
ways talking  shop." 

One  of  the  worst  hated  men  at  Auburn  was 
Weeks,  a  well-known  club  man  and  banker, 
who  once  stole  over  a  million  dollars.  He  was 
despised  by  the  other  convicts,  for  he  was  a 
"squealer."  One  of  the  screws  in  charge  of 
the  Underground  Tunnel  was  doing  things  for 
Weeks,  who  had  a  snap, — the  position  of  book- 
keeper, in  the  clothing  department.  In  his 
desk  he  kept  whiskey,  beer  and  cigars,  and 
lived  well.  One  day  a  big  bug  paid  him  a 
visit,  and  Weeks  belched  how  he  had  to  give 
up  his  watch  and  chain  in  order  to  secure  lux- 
uries.    His  friend,  the  big  bug,  reported    to 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

the  prison  authorities,  and  the  principal  keeper 
went  to  Weeks  and  made  the  coward  squeal 
on  the  keeper  who  had  his  "  front."  The 
screw  lost  his  job,  and  when  the  convicts  heard 
of  it,  they  made  Weeks'  life  miserable  for 
years. 

But  the  man  who  was  hated  worst  of  all 
those  in  prison  was  Biff  Ellerson.  I  never 
understood  why  the  other  cons  hated  him, 
unless  it  was  that  he  always  wore  a  necktie  ; 
this  is  not  etiquette  in  stir,  which  in  the  con- 
victs' opinion  ought  to  be  a  place  of  mourning. 
He  had  been  a  broker  and  a  clubman,  and  was 
high  up  in  the  world.  Ellerson  was  a  consci- 
entious man,  and  once,  when  a  mere  boy,  who 
had  stolen  a  ten  dollar  watch,  was  given  fifteen 
years,  had  publicly  criticized  the  judge  and 
raised  a  storm  in  the  newspapers.  Ellerson 
compared  this  lad's  punishment  with  that  of  a 
man  like  Weeks,  who  had  robbed  orphans  out 
of  their  all  and  only  received  ten  years  for  it. 
Many  is  the  time  that  this  man,  Biff  Ellerson, 
has  been  kind  to  men  in  stir  who  hated  him. 
He  had  charge  of  the  dungeon  at  Auburn 
where  convicts  who  had  broken  the  rules  were 
confined.  I  have  known  him  to  open  my  door 
and  give  me  water  on  the  quiet,  many  a  time, 
[178  1 


In  Stir. 

and  he  did  it  for  others  who  were  ungrateful, 
and  at  the  risk,  too,  of  never  being  trusted 
again  by  the  screws  and  of  getting  a  dose  of 
the  cuddy-hole  himself. 

By  far  the  greater  number  of  these  swell 
grafters  who  steal  millions  die  poor,  for  it  is 
not  what  a  man  steals,  but  what  he  saves,  that 
counts.  I  have  often  noticed  that  the  bank 
burglar  who  is  high  up  in  his  profession  is  not 
the  one  who  has  the  most  money  when  he  gets 
to  be  forty-five  or  fifty  years  of  age.  The 
second  or  third  class  gun  is  more  likely  to  lay 
by  something.  His  general  expenses  are  not 
so  large  and  he  does  not  need  so  much  fall- 
money  ;  and  in  a  few  years  he  can  usually 
show  more  money  than  the  big  gun  who  has  a 
dozen  living  on  him.  I  knew  a  Big  One  who 
told  me  that  every  time  he  met  a  certain  police 
ofificial,  his  watch,  a  piece  of  jewelry,  a  diamond 
stud  or  even  his  cuff  buttons  were  much 
admired.  The  policeman  always  had  some 
relative  or  friend  who  desired  just  the  kind 
of  ornament  the  Big  One  happened  to  be  wear- 
ing at  the  time. 

I  cannot  help  comparing  those  swell  guys 
whom  I  knew  at  Sing  Sing  with  a  third  class 
pickpocket  I  met  on  the  same  bit.    The  big  ones 
[  179] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

are  dead  or  worse,  but  the  other  day  I  met,  in 
New  York,  my  old  pickpocket  friend  in  stir, 
Mr.  Aut.  I  am  positive  that  the  hand-shake 
he  gave  me  was  only  a  muscular  action,  for 
Mr.  Aut  has  "  squared  it ",  and  the  gun  who 
has  reformed  and  has  become  prosperous  does 
not  like  to  meet  an  old  acquaintance,  who 
knows  too  much  about  his  past  life.  When  I 
ran  across  him  in  the  city  I  started  in  to  talk 
about  old  times  in  stir  and  of  pals  we  knew  in 
the  long  ago,  but  he  answered  me  by  saying, 
"Nix",  which  meant  "Drop  It".  To  get 
him  to  talk  I  was  forced  to  throw  a  few  '*  Lar- 
rys  "  into  him,  such  as :  "  Well,  old  man,  only  for 
your  few  mistakes  of  the  past,  you  might  be 
leader  of  Tammany  Hall."  Gradually  he 
expanded  and  told  me  how  much  he  had 
gained  in  weight  since  he  left  stir  and  what  he 
had  done  for  certain  ungrateful  grafters.  He 
boasted  that  he  could  get  bail  for  anyone  to 
the  sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  he  told 
the  truth,  for  this  man,  who  had  been  a  third 
class  dip,  owns  at  the  present  time,  three  gin- 
mills  and  is  something  of  a  politician.  He 
has  three  beautiful  children  and  is  well  up  in 
the  world.  His  daughter  was  educated  at  a 
convent,  and  his  son  is  at  a  well-known  college. 
Yet  I  remember  the  time  when  this  ex  gun, 
[i8o] 


In  Stir. 

Mr.  Aut,  and  I,  locked  near  one  another  in 
Sing  Sing  and  consoled  one  another  with  what 
little  luxuries  we  could  get  together.  Our  let- 
ters, booze  and  troubles  were  shared  between 
us,  and  many  is  the  time  I  have  felt  for  him ; 
for  he  had  married  a  little  shop  girl  and  had 
two  children  at  that  time.  When  he  got  out 
of  stir  he  started  in  to  square  it,  that  is,  not  to 
go  to  prison  any  more.  He  was  wise  and  no 
one  can  blame  him.  He  is  a  good  father  and 
a  successful  man.  If  he  had  been  a  better 
grafter  it  would  not  have  been  so  easy  for  him 
to  reform.  I  wish  him  all  kinds  of  prosperity, 
but  I  don't  like  him  as  well  as  I  did  when  we 
wore  the  striped  garb  and  whispered  good 
luck  to  one  another  in  that  mansion  of  woes  on 
the  Hudson. 

One  of  Mr.  Aut's  possessions  makes  me  smile 
whenever  I  think  of  it.  In  his  swell  parlor, 
over  a  brand  new  piano,  hangs  an  oil  painting 
of  himself,  in  which  he  takes  great  pride.  I 
could  not  help  thinking  that  that  picture 
showed  a  far  more  prosperous  man  and  one  in 
better  surroundings  than  a  certain  photograph 
of  his  which  is  quite  as  highly  treasured  as  the 
more  costly  painting ;  although  it  is  only  a  tin- 
type, numbered  two  thousand  and  odd,  in  the 
Rogues'  Gallery. 

[i8i] 


CHAPTER  IX. 

In  Stir  and  Out. 

Some  of  the  most  disagreeable  days  I  ever 
spent  in  prison  were  the  holidays,  only  three 
of  which  during  the  year,  however,  were  kept 
— Fourth  of  July,  Thanksgiving  and  Christ- 
mas. In  Sing  Sing  there  was  no  work  on 
those  days,  and  we  could  lie  abed  longer  in 
the  morning.  The  food  was  somewhat  better 
than  usual.  Breakfast  consisted  of  boiled  ham, 
mashed  potatoes  and  gravy,  and  a  cup  of 
coffee  with  milk.  After  mess  we  went,  as 
usual,  to  chapel,  and  then  gave  a  kind  of 
vaudeville  show,  all  with  local  talent.  We 
sang  rag-time  and  sentimental  songs,  some  of 
us  played  on  an  instrument,  such  as  the  violin, 
mandolin,  or  cornet,  and  the  band  gave  the 
latest  pieces  from  comic  opera.  After  the 
show  was  over  we  went  to  the  mess-room 
again  where  we  received  a  pan  containing  a 
piece  of  pie,  some  cheese,  a  few  apples,  as 
much  bread  as  we  desired  and — a  real  luxury 
in  stir — two  cigars.  With  our  booty  we  then 
[182] 


In  Siir  and  Out. 

returned  to  our  cells,  at  about  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  after  the  guards  had  made 
the  rounds  to  see  that  none  of  the  birds  had 
gone  astray,  we  were  locked  up  until  the  next 
morning,  without  anything  more  to  eat.  We 
were  permitted  to  talk  to  one  another  from 
our  cells  until  five  o'clock,  when  the  night 
guards  went  on  duty.  Such  is — just  imagine 
it — a  great  day  in  Sing  Sing !  The  gun,  no 
matter  how  big  a  guy  he  is,  even  if  he  has 
robbed  a  bank  and  stolen  millions,  is  far 
worse  off  than  the  meanest  laborer,  be  he 
ever  so  poor.  He  may  have  only  a  crust,  but 
he  has  that  priceless  boon,  his  liberty. 

At  Auburn  the  routine  on  holidays  is  much 
the  same  as  that  of  Sing  Sing ;  but  one  is  not 
compelled  to  go  to  chapel,  which  is  a  real 
kindness.  I  don't  think  a  man  ought  to  be 
forced  to  go  to  church,  even  in  stir,  against 
his  will.  On  holidays  in  Auburn  a  man  may 
stay  in  his  cell  instead  of  attending  divine  ser- 
vice, if  he  so  desires,  and  not  be  punished  for 
it.  Many  a  con  prefers  not  to  go  even  to  the 
vaudeville  show,  which  at  Auburn  is  given  by 
outside  talent,  but  remains  quietly  all  day  in 
his  cell.  There  is  one  other  great  holiday 
privilege  at  Auburn,  which  some  of  the  con- 
[183] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

victs  appreciate  more  than  I  did.  When  the 
clock  strikes  twelve  o'clock  the  convicts,  locked 
in  their  cells,  start  in  to  make  the  rest  of  the 
night  hideous,  by  pounding  on  the  doors, 
playing  all  sorts  of  instruments,  blowing  whis- 
tles, and  doing  everything  else  that  would 
make  a  noise.  There  is  no  more  sleep  that 
night,  for  everything  is  given  over  to  Bedlam, 
until  five  thirty  in  the  morning,  when  disci- 
pline again  reigns,  and  the  nervous  man  who 
detests  these  holidays  sighs  with  pleasure, 
and  says  to  himself :  "  I  am  so  glad  that  at 
last  everything  is  quiet  in  this  cursed  stir." 

What  with  poor  food,  little  air  and  exercise, 
no  female  society,  bad  habits  and  holidays,  it 
is  no  wonder  that  there  are  many  attempts, 
in  spite  of  the  danger,  to  escape  from  stir. 
Most  of  these  attempts  are  unsuccessful,  but  a 
few  succeed.  One  of  the  cleverest  escapes  I 
know  of  happened  during  my  term  at  Auburn. 

B was   the   most  feared   convict   in   the 

prison.  He  was  so  intelligent,  so  reckless  and 
so  good  a  mechanic  that  the  guards  were 
afraid  he  would  make  his  elegant  any  day. 
Indeed,  if  ever  a  man  threw  away  gifts  for  not 
even  the  proverbial  mess  of   pottage,  it  was 

this  man  B .     He  was  the  cleverest  man  I 

[184] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

ever  met  in  stir  or  out.  It  was  after  one 
of   the    delightful    holidays    in    Auburn  that 

B ,    who    was   a    nervous    man,    decided 

to  make  his  gets.  He  picked  a  quarrel  with 
another  convict  and  was  so  rough  that  the 
principal  keeper  almost  decided  to  let  him  off ; 

but  when  B spat  in  his  face  he  changed 

his  mind  and  put  him  in  the  dungeon.  I  have 
already  mentioned  this  ram-shackle   building 

at  Auburn.     It  was  the  worst  yet.     All  B 's 

clothing  was  taken  off  and  an  old  coat,  shirt, 
and  trousers  without  buttons  were  given  him. 
An  old  piece  of  bay  rope  was  handed  him  to 
tie  around  his  waist,  and  he  was  left  in  dark- 
ness. This  was  what  he  wanted,  for,  although 
they  had  stripped  him  naked  and  searched 
him,  he  managed  to  conceal  a  saw,  which  he 
used  to  such  good  purpose  that  on  the  second 
night  he  had  sawed  himself  into  the  yard. 
Instead  of  trying  to  go  over  the  wall,  as  most 

cons  would  have  done,  B placed  a  ladder, 

which  he  found  in  the  repair  shop,  against  the 
wall,  and   when  the  guards  discovered    next 

morning  that  B was  not  in  the  dungeon, 

and  saw  the  ladder  on  the  wall,  they  thought 

he  had  escaped,  and  did   not  search  the  stir 

but  notified  the  towns  to  look  after  him.     He 

[185] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

was  not  found,  of  course,  for  he  was  hiding  in 
the  cellar  of  the  prison.  A  night  or  two  after- 
wards he  went  to  the  tailor  shop,  selected  the 
best  suit  of  clothes  in  the  place,  opened  the 
safe  which  contained  the  valuables  of  the  con- 
victs, with  a  piece  of  steel  and  a  hammer,  thus 
robbing  his  fellow  sufferers,  and  escaped  by 
the  ladder.  After  several  months  of  freedom 
he  was  caught,  sent  back  to  stir,  and  forfeited 
half  of  his  commutation  time. 

A  more  tragic  attempt  was  made  by  the 
convicts,  Big  Benson  and  Little  Kick.  They 
got  tools  from  friends  in  the  machine  shop 
and  started  in  to  saw  around  the  locks  of  their 
doors.  They  worked  quietly,  and  were  not 
discovered.  The  reason  is  that  there  is  some- 
times honor  among  thieves.  Two  of  their 
friends  in  their  own  gallery,  two  on  the  gallery 
above  and  two  on  that  underneath,  tipped 
them  off,  by  a  cough  or  some  other  noise, 
whenever  the  night  guard  was  coming ;  and 
they  would  cease  their  work  with  the  saws. 
Convicts  grow  very  keen  in  detecting  the 
screw  by  the  creaking  of  his  boots  on  the 
wooden  gallery  floor ;  if  they  are  not  quite 
sure  it  is  he,  they  often  put  a  small  piece  of 
looking-glass  underneath  the  door,  and  can 
[186] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

thus  see  down  the  gallery  in  either  direction  a 
certain  distance.  Whenever  Benson  and 
Kick  were  at  work,  they  would  accompany  the 
noise  of  the  saw  with  some  other  noise,  so  as 
to  drown  the  former,  for  they  knew  that, 
although  they  had  some  friends  among  the 
convicts,  there  were  others  who,  if  they  got 
next,  would  tip  off  the  keepers  that  an  escape 
was  to  be  made.  In  the  morning  they  would 
putty  up  the  cuts  made  in  the  door  during  the 
night.  One  night  when  everything  was  ready, 
they  slipped  from  their  cells,  put  the  mug  on 
the  guard,  took  away  his  cannister,  and  tied 
him  to  the  bottom  of  one  of  their  cells.  They 
did  the  same  to  another  guard,  who  was  on 
the  watch  in  the  gallery  below,  went  to  the 
outside  window  on  the  Hudson  side  of  Sing 
Sing,  and  putting  a  Jack,  which  they  had  con- 
cealed in  the  cell,  between  the  bars  of  the  win- 
dow, spread  them  far  apart,  so  that  they  could 
make  their  exit.  At  this  point  however  they 
were  discovered  by  a  third  guard,  who  fired  at 
them,  hitting  Little  Kick  in  the  leg.  The 
shot  aroused  the  sergeant  of  the  guards  and 
he  gave  the  alarm.  Big  Benson  was  just  get- 
ting through  the  window  when  the  whole  pack 
of  guards  fired  at  him,  killing  him  as  dead  as 
[187] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

a  door-nail.  Little  Kick  lost  his  nerve  and 
surrendered,  and  was  taken  to  the  dungeon. 
Big  Benson,  who  had  been  serving  a  term  for 
highway  robbery,  was  one  of  the  best  liked 
men  in  stir,  and  when  rumors  reached  the  con- 
victs that  he  had  been  shot,  pandemonium 
broke  loose  in  the  cells.  They  yelled  and 
beat  their  coffee  cups  against  the  iron  doors, 
and  the  officials  were  powerless  to  quiet  them. 
There  was  more  noise  even  than  on  a  holiday 
at  Auburn. 

Soon  after  I  was  transferred  from  Sing  Sing 
to  Auburn,  a  friend  came  to  me  and  said : 
"Jimmy,  are  you  on  either  of  the  shoe-shop 
galleries?  No?  Well,  if  you  can  get  on 
Keeper  Riley's  gallery  I  think  you  can  spring 
(escape)  ." 

Then  he  let  me  in  on  one  of  the  cleverest 
beats  I  ever  knew ;  if  I  could  have  succeeded 
in  being  put  on  that  gallery  I  should  not  have 
finished  my  first  term  in  State's  prison.  At 
that  time  work  was  slack  and  the  men  were 
locked  in  their  cells  most  of  the  time.  Leahy 
started  in  to  dig  out  the  bricks  from  the  ceil- 
ing of  his  cell.  Each  day,  when  taking  his 
turn  for  an  hour  in  the  yard,  he  would  give 
the  cement,  which  he  had  done  up  in  small 
[188] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

packages,  to  friends,  who  would  dump  it  in 
their  buckets,  the  contents  of  which  they 
would  then  throw  into  the  large  cesspool. 
While  exercising  in  the  yard,  the  cons  would 
throw  the  bricks  Leahy  had  removed  on  an 
old  brick  pile  under  the  archway.  After  he 
had  removed  sufficient  stuff  to  make  a  hole 
big  enough  to  crawl  through,  all  he  had  left  to 
do  was  to  saw  a  few  boards,  and  remove  a  few 
tiles,  and  then  he  was  on  the  roof.  It  is  the 
habit  of  the  guard,  when  he  goes  the  rounds, 
to  rap  the  ceiling  of  every  cell  with  his  stick, 
to  see  if  there  is  an  excavation.  Leahy  had 
guarded  against  this  by  filling  a  small  box 
with  sand  and  placing  it  in  the  opening. 
Then  he  pasted  a  piece  of  linen  over  the  box 
and  whitewashed  it.  Even  when  the  screw 
came  around  to  glance  in  his  cell  Leahy 
would  continue  to  work,  for  he  had  rigged  up 
a  dummy  of  himself  in  bed.  When  he  reached 
the  roof,  he  dropped  to  a  lower  building, 
reached  the  wall  which  surrounds  the  prison, 
and  with  a  rope  lowered  himself  to  the  ground. 
With  a  brand  new  suit  of  clothes  which  a 
friend  had  stolen  from  the  shop,  Leahy  went 
forth  into  the  open,  and  was  never  caught. 
At  Sing  Sing  an  old  chum  of  mine  named 
[189] 


J^he  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

Tom  escaped,  and  would  never  have  been 
caught  if  he  had  not  been  so  sentimental. 
Indeed,  he  was  improvident  in  every  way. 
He  had  been  a  well-known  house-worker,  and 
made  lots  of  money  at  this  graft,  but  he  lived 
well  and  blew  what  he  stole,  and  consequently 
did  many  years  in  prison.  He  was  nailed  for 
a  house  that  was  touched  of  "^clat"  worth 
thousands,  and  convicted,  though  of  this  par- 
ticular crime  he  was,  I  am  convinced,  inno- 
cent; of  course,  he  howled  like  a  stuck  pig 
about  the  injustice  of  it,  all  his  life.  While 
he  was  in  Raymond  Street  jail  he  got  wind  of 
the  men  who  really  did  the  job.  They  were 
pals  and  he  asked  them  to  try  to  turn  him 
out.  His  girl,  Tessie,  heard  of  it  and  wanted 
to  go  to  Police  Headquarters  and  squeal  on 
the  others,  to  save  her  sweetheart.  But  Tom 
was  frantic,  for  there  was  no  squeal  in  him. 
You  find  grafters  like  that  sometimes,  and 
Tom  was  always  sentimental.  He  certainly 
preferred  to  go  to  stir  rather  than  have  the 
name  of  being  a  belcher.  So  he  went  to  Sing 
Sing  for  seven  and  a  half  years.  He  was  a 
good  mechanic  and  was  assigned  to  a  brick- 
laying job  on  the  wall.  He  had  an  easy  time 
in  stir,  for  he  had  a  screw  right,  and  got  many 
L  190] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

luxuries  through  the  Underground  ;  and  was 
not  watched  very  closely.  One  day  he  put  a 
suit  of  clothes  under  his  stripes,  vamoosed 
into  a  wood  near  by,  and  removed  his  stripes. 
He  kept  on  walking  till  he  reached  Connecti- 
cut, which,  as  I  have  said,  is  the  softest  state 
in  the  Union. 

Tom  would  never  have  finished  that  bit  in 
stir,  if,  as  I  have  also  said,  he  had  not  been  so 
sentimental.  When  in  prison  a  grafter  con- 
tinually thinks  about  his  old  pals  and  hang- 
outs, and  the  last  scenes  familiar  to  him  before 
he  went  to  stir.  Tom  was  a  well-known  gun, 
with  his  picture  in  the  Hall  of  Fame,  and  yet, 
after  beating  prison,  and  leaving  years  behind, 
and  knowing  that  if  caught  he  would  have  to 
do  additional  time,  would  have  the  authorities 
sore  against  him  and  be  confined  in  the  dark 
cell,  he  yet,  in  spite  of  all  that,  after  a  short 
time,  made  for  his  old  haunts  on  the  Bowery, 
where  he  was  nailed  by  a  fly-cop  and  sent 
back  to  Sing  Sing.  So  much  for  the  force  of 
habit  and  of  environment,  especially  when  a 
grafter  is  a  good  fellow  and  loves  his  old 
pals. 

On  one  occasion  Tom  was  well  paid  for 
being  a  good  fellow.  Jack  was  a  well-known 
[191] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

pugilist  who  had  become  a  grafter.  His  wife's 
sister  had  married  a  millionaire,  and  Jack  stole 
the  millions,  which  amounted,  in  this  case,  to 
only  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  For  this 
he  was  put  in  prison  for  four  years.  While  in 
stir,  Tom,  who  had  a  screw  right,  did  him 
many  favors,  which  Jack  remembered.  Years 
afterwards  they  were  both  on  the  outside 
again.  Tom  was  still  a  grafter,  but  Jack  had 
gone  to  work  for  a  police  official  as  general 
utility  man,  and  gained  the  confidence  of  his 
employer,  who  was  chief  of  the  detective 
force.  The  latter  got  Jack  a  position  as  pri= 
vate  detective  in  one  of  the  swellest  hotels  in 
Florida.  Now,  Tom  happened  to  be  grafting 
in  that  State,  and  met  his  old  friend  Jack  at 
the  hotel.  Instead  of  tipping  off  the  chief 
that  Tom  was  a  grafter,  Jack  staked  his  old 
pal,  for  he  remembered  the  favors  he  had 
received  in  stir.  Tom  was  at  liberty  for  four 
years,  and  then  was  brought  to  police  head- 
quarters where  the  chief  said  to  him :  "I 
know  that  you  met  Jack  in  Florida,  and  I  am 
sore  because  he  did  not  tip  me  off.  "  Tom 
replied  indignantly:  *•  He  is  not  a  hyena  like 
your  ilk.  He  is  not  capable  of  the  basest  of 
all  crimes,  ingratitude.  I  can  forgive  a  man 
[  192] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

who  puts  his  hand  in  my  pocket  and  steals  my 
money.  I  can  forgive  him,  for  it  may  do  him 
good.  He  may  invest  the  money  and  become 
an  honored  member  of  the  community.  But 
the  crime  no  man  can  forgive  is  ingratitude. 
It  is  the  most  inhuman  of  crimes  and  only 
your  ilk  is  capable  of  it.  " 

The  Chief  smiled  at  Tom's  sentiment — 
that  was  always  his  weak  point — poor  Tom  ! — 
and  said  :  **  Well,  you  are  a  clever  thief,  and 
I'm  glad  I  was  wise  enough  to  catch  you." 
Whereupon  Tom  sneered  and  remarked :  **  I 
could  die  of  old  age  in  this  city  for  all  of  you 
and  your  detectives.  I  was  tipped  off  to  you 
by  a  Dicky  Bird  (stool  pigeon)  damn  him ! " 
I  have  known  few  grafters  who  had  as  much 
feeling  as  Tom. 

More  than  five  years  passed,  and  the  time 
for  my  release  from  Auburn  drew  near.  The 
last  weeks  dragged  terribly ;  they  seemed 
almost  as  long  as  the  years  that  had  gone 
before.  Sometimes  I  thought  the  time  would 
never  come.  The  day  before  I  was  discharged 
I  bade  good-bye  to  my  friends,  who  said  to 
me,  smiling  :  "  She  has  come  at  last,"  or  **  It's 
near  at  hand,"  or  "  It  was  a  long  time  a-com- 
ing."  That  night  I  built  many  castles  in  the 
[  193] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

air,  with  the  help  of  a  large  piece  of  opium  : 
and  continued  to  make  the  good  resolutions  I 
had  begun  some  time  before.  I  had  permis- 
sion from  the  night  guard  to  keep  my  light 
burning  after  the  usual  hour,  and  the  last 
book  I  read  on  my  first  term  in  stir  was  Tris- 
tram Shandy.  Just  before  I  went  to  bed  I 
sang  for  the  last  time  a  popular  prison  song 
which  had  been  running  in  my  head  for 
months : 

"  Roll  round,  '89,  '90,  '91,  sweet  '92  roll  around. 
How  happy  I  shall  be  the  morning  I  go  free,  sweet  '92 
roll  around." 

Before  I  fell  asleep  I  resolved  to  be  good, 
to  quit  opium  and  not  to  graft  any  more. 
The  resolution  was  easily  made  and  I  went  to 
bed  happy.  I  was  up  at  day-break  and  penned 
a  few  last  words  to  my  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances remaining  in  stir.  I  promised  some  of 
them  that  I  would  see  their  friends  on  the 
outside  and  send  them  delicacies  and  a  little 
money.  They  knew  that  I  would  keep  my 
promise,  for  I  have  always  been  a  man  of  my 
word ;  as  many  of  the  most  successful  grafters 
are.  It  is  only  the  vogel-grafter,  the  petty 
larceny  thief  or  the  **  sure-thing  "  article,  who 
habitually  breaks  his  word.  Many  people 
[  194] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

think  that  a  thief  can  not  be  trusted ;  and  it 
certainly  is  true  that  the  profession  does  not 
help  to  make  a  man  virtuous  in  his  personal 
relations.  But  it  is  also  true  that  a  man  may 
be,  and  sometimes  is,  honorable  in  his  dealings 
with  his  own  world,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
desperate  criminal  in  the  other.  It  is  not  of 
course  common,  to  find  a  thief  who  is  an 
honest  man  ;  but  is  there  very  often  an  honest 
man  anywhere,  in  the  world  of  graft  or  out  of 
it?  If  it  is  often,  so  much  the  better,  but  that 
has  not  been  my  experience.  Does  not  every- 
one know  that  the  men  who  do  society  the 
greatest  injury  have  never  done  time ;  in  fact, 
may  never  have  broken  any  laws  ?  I  am  not 
trying  to  excuse  myself  or  my  companions  in 
crime,  but  I  think  the  world  is  a  little  twisted 
in  its  ideas  as  to  right  and  wrong,  and  who  are 
the  greatest  sinners. 

When  six  o'clock  on  the  final  day  came 
round  it  was  a  great  relief.  I  went  through 
the  regular  routine,  and  at  eight  o'clock  was 
called  to  the  front  office,  received  a  new  suit 
of  clothes,  as  well  as  my  fare  home  and  ten  dol- 
lars with  which  to  begin  life  afresh. 

"  Hold  on,"  I  said,  to  the  Warden.  "  I 
worked  eighteen  months.  Under  the  new 
[195] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

piece-price  plan  I  ought  to  be  allowed  a  cer- 
tain percentage  of  my  earnings." 

The  Warden,  who  was  a  good  fellow  and 
permitted  almost  anything  to  come  in  by  the 
Underground  Tunnel,  asked  the  clerk  if  there 
was  any  more  money  for  me.  The  clerk  con- 
sulted with  the  keepers  and  then  reported  to 
the  Warden  that  I  was  the  most  tired  man 
that  ever  entered  the  prison ;  adding  that  it 
was  very  nervy  of  me  to  want  more  money, 
after  they  had  treated  me  far  better  than  the 
parent  of  the  Prodigal  treated  his  son.  The 
Warden,  thereupon,  remarked  to  me  that  if  I 
went  pilfering  again  and  were  not  more  ener- 
getic than  I  had  been  in  prison,  I  would  never 
eat.     "  Goodbye,"  he  concluded. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  hope  we'll  never  meet 
again." 

With  my  discharge  papers  in  my  hand,  and  in 
my  mind  a  resolution  never  to  go  back  to  the 
stir  where  so  many  of  my  friends,  strong  fellows, 
too,  had  lost  their  lives  or  had  become  physi- 
cal or  mental  wrecks,  I  left  Auburn  penitenti- 
ary and  went  forth  into  the  free  world.  I  had 
gone  to  stir  a  boy  of  twenty-one,  and  left  it  a 
man  of  twenty-six.  I  entered  healthy,  and  left 
broken  down  in  health,  with  the  marks  of  the 
[196] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

jail-bird  upon  me ;  marks,  mental  and  physical, 
that  would  never  leave  me,  and  habits  that  I 
knew  would  stick  closer  than  a  brother.  I 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  a  life  of  crime. 
I  had  tested  that  well  enough.  But  there 
were  times  during  the  last  months  I  spent  in 
my  cell,  when,  in  spite  of  my  good  resolutions, 
I  hated  the  outside  world  which  had  forced  me 
into  a  place  that  took  away  from  my  manhood 
and  strength.  I  knew  I  had  sinned  against 
my  fellow  men,  but  I  knew,  too,  that  there 
had  been  something  good  in  me.  I  was  half 
Irish,  and  about  that  race  there  is  naturally 
something  roguish  ;  and  that  was  part  of  my 
wickedness.  When  I  left  stir  I  knew  I  was 
not  capable,  after  five  years  and  some  months 
of  unnatural  routine,  of  what  I  should  have 
been  by  nature. 

A  man  is  like  an  electric  plant.  Use  poor 
fuel  and  you  will  have  poor  electricity.  The 
food  is  bad  in  prison.  The  cells  at  Sing  Sing 
are  a  crime  against  the  criminal ;  and  in  these 
damp  and  narrow  cells  he  spends,  on  the  aver- 
age, eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four. 
In  the  name  of  humanity  and  science  what 
can  society  expect  from  a  man  who  has  spent 
a  number  of  years  in  such  surroundings  ?  He 
[  197] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

will  come  out  of  stir,  as  a  rule,  a  burden  on 
the  tax-payers,  unable  to  work,  and  confirmed 
in  a  life  of  crime  ;  desperate,  and  willing  to 
take  any  chance.  The  low-down,  petty,  cant- 
ing thief,  who  works  all  the  charitable  socie- 
ties and  will  rob  only  those  who  are  his  bene- 
factors, or  a  door-mat,  is  utterly  useless  in 
prison  or  out.  The  healthy,  intelligent,  ambi- 
tious grafter  is  capable  of  reform  and  useful- 
ness, if  shown  the  error  of  his  ways  or  taken 
hold  of  before  his  physical  and  mental  health 
is  ruined  by  prison  life.  You  can  appeal  to 
his  manhood  at  that  early  time.  After  he  has 
spent  a  certain  number  of  years  in  stir  his  teeth 
become  decayed;  he  can  not  chew  his  food, 
which  is  coarse  and  ill-cooked ;  his  stomach 
gets  bad :  and  once  his  stomach  becomes 
deranged  it  is  only  a  short  time  before  his 
head  is  in  a  like  condition.  Eventually,  he 
may  be  transferred  to  the  mad-house.  I  left 
Auburn  stir  a  happy  man,  for  the  time,  for  I 
thought  everything  would  be  smooth  sailing. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  could  not  know  the  act- 
ual realities  I  had  to  face,  inside  and  outside 
of  me,  and  so  all  my  good  resolutions  were 
nothing  but  a  dream. 

It  was  a  fine  May  morning  that  I  left  Auburn 
[198] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

and  I  was  greatly  excited  and  bewildered  by 
the  brightness  and  joy  of  everything  about 
me.  I  took  my  hat  off,  gazed  up  at  the  clear 
sky,  looked  up  and  down  the  street  and  at  the 
passers-by,  with  a  feeling  of  pleasure  and  con- 
fusion. I  turned  to  the  man  who  had  been 
released  with  me,  and  said,  "  Let's  go  and  get 
something  to  eat."  On  the  way  to  the  restau- 
rant, however,  the  jangling  of  the  trolleys  up- 
set my  nerves.  I  could  not  eat,  and  drank  a 
couple  of  whiskies.  They  did  not  taste  right. 
Everything  seemed  tame,  compared  with  the 
air,  which  I  breathed  like  a  drunken  man. 

I  bought  a  few  pounds  of  tea,  canned  goods, 
cheese  and  fruit,  which  I  sent  by  a  keeper  to 
my  friends  in  stir.  I  also  bought  for  my 
friends  a  few  dollars'  worth  of  morphine  and 
some  pulverized  gum  opium.  How  could  I 
send  it  to  them,  for  the  keeper  was  not  "  next  " 
to  the  Underground  ?  Suddenly  I  had  an 
idea.  I  bought  ten  cents  worth  of  walnuts, 
split  them,  took  the  meat  out,  put  the  mor- 
phine and  opium  in,  closed  them  with  mucilage, 
put  them  in  a  bag  and  sent  them  to  the  con- 
victs with  the  basket  of  other  things  I  had  left 
with  the  innocent  keeper. 

I  got  aboard  my  train,  and  as  I  pulled  out 
[  199] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

of  the  town  of  Auburn  gave  a  great  sigh  of 
relief.  I  longed  to  go  directly  to  New  York, 
for  I  always  did  like  big  cities,  particularly 
Manhattan,  and  I  was  dying  to  see  some  of 
my  old  girls.  But  I  stopped  off  at  Syracuse, 
according  to  promises,  to  deliver  some  mes- 
sages to  the  relatives  of  convicts,  and  so  reached 
New  York  a  few  hours  later  than  my  family 
and  friends  had  expected.  They  had  gone 
to  meet  an  earlier  train,  and  had  not  waited, 
so  that  when  I  reached  my  native  city  after 
this  long  absence  I  found  nobody  at  the  station 
to  welcome  me  back.  It  made  me  sad  for  a 
moment,  but  when  I  passed  out  into  the  streets 
of  the  big  town  I  felt  excited  and  joyous,  and 
so  confused  that  I  thought  I  knew  almost 
everybody  on  the  street.  I  nearly  spoke  to  a 
stranger,  a  woman,  thinking  she  was  Blonde 
Mamie. 

I  soon  reached  the  Bowery  and  there  met 
some  of  my  old  pals  ;  but  was  much  surprised 
to  find  them  changed  and  older.  For  years 
and  years  a  convict  lives  in  a  dream.  He  is 
isolated  from  the  realities  of  the  outside  world. 
In  stir  he  is  a  machine,  and  his  mind  is  con- 
tinually dwelling  on  the  last  time  he  was  at 
liberty ;  he  thinks  of  his  family  and  friends  as 
[  200  ] 


In  Stir  and  Out. 

they  were  then.  They  may  have  become  old, 
sickly  and  wrinkled,  but  he  does  not  realize 
this.  When,  set  free,  he  tries  to  find  them, 
he  expects  that  they  will  be  unchanged,  but  if 
he  finds  them  at  all,  what  a  shock !  An  old- 
timer  I  knew,  a  man  named  Packey,  who  had 
served  fifteen  years  out  of  a  life  sentence,  and 
had  been  twice  declared  insane,  told  me  that 
he  had  reached  a  state  of  mind  in  which  he 
imagined  himself  to  be  still  a  young  fellow,  of 
the  age  he  was  when  he  first  went  to  stir. 


[201  ] 


CHAPTER  X. 

At  the  Graft  Again. 

I  SPENT  my  first  day  in  New  York  looking 
up  my  old  pals  and  girls,  especially  the  latter. 
How  I  longed  to  exchange  friendly  words 
with  a  woman  !  But  the  girls  I  knew  were  all 
gone,  and  I  was  forced  to  make  new  acquain- 
tances on  the  spot.  I  spent  all  the  afternoon 
and  most  of  the  evening  with  a  girl  I  picked 
up  on  the  Bowery;  I  thought  she  was  the 
most  beautiful  creature  in  the  world ;  but 
when  I  saw  her  again  weeks  afterwards,  when 
women  were  not  so  novel  to  me,  I  found 
her  almost  hideous.  I  must  have  longed  for 
a  young  woman's  society,  for  I  did  not  go  to 
see  my  poor  old  mother  until  I  had  left  my 
Bowery  acquaintance.  And  yet  my  mother 
had  often  proved  herself  my  only  friend ! 
But  I  had  a  long  talk  with  her  before  I  slept, 
and  when  I  left  her  for  a  stroll  in  the  wonder- 
ful city  before  going  to  bed  my  resolution  to 
be  good  was  keener  than  ever. 
[  202  ] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

As  I  sauntered  along  the  Bowery  that  night 
the  desire  to  talk  to  an  old  pal  was  strong. 
But  where  was  I  to  find  a  friend?  Only  in 
places  where  thieves  hung  out.  "Well,"  I 
said  to  myself,  **  there  is  no  harm  in  talking  to 
my  old  pals.  I  will  tell  them  there  is  noth- 
ing in  the  graft,  and  that  I  have  squared  it." 
I  dropped  into  a  music  hall,  a  resort  for  pick- 
pockets, kept  by  an  old  gun,  and  there  I  met 
Teddy,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  years. 

"  Hello,  Jim,"  he  said,  giving  me  the  glad 
hand,  "  I  thought  you  were  dead." 

"Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  Teddy,"  I  re- 
plied, "  I  am  still  in  evidence." 

We  had  a  couple  of  beers.  I  could  not 
quite  make  up  my  mind  to  tell  him  I  had 
squared  it ;  and  he  put  me  next  to  things  in 
town. 

"Take    my   advice,"    he   said,    "and   keep 

away  from (naming  certain    clubs 

and  saloons  where  thieves  congregated).  The 
proprietors  of  these  places  and  the  guns  that 
hang  out  there,  many  of  them  anyway,  are 
not  on  the  level.  Some  of  the  grafters  who 
go  there  have  the  reputation  of  being  clever 
dips,  but  they  have  protection  from  the  Front 
Office  men  because  they  are  rats  and  so  can 
[203] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

tear  things  open  without  danger.  By  giving 
up  a  certain  amount  of  stuff  and  dropping  a 
stall  or  two  occasionally  to  keep  up  the  fly- 
man's reputation,  they  are  able  to  have  a  bank 
account  and  never  go  to  stir.  The  flymen 
hang  out  in  these  joints,  waiting  for  a  tip,  and 
they  are  bad  places  for  a  grafter  who  is  on 
the  level." 

I  listened  with  attention,  and  said,  by  force 
of  habit  : 

"  Put  me  next  to  the  stool-pigeons,  Teddy. 
You  know  I  am  just  back  from  stir." 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "outside  of  so  and  so 
(and  he  mentioned  half-a-dozen  men  by  name) 
none  of  them  who  hang  out  in  those  joints 
can  be  trusted.  Come  to  my  house,  Jim,  and 
we'll  have  a  long  talk  about  old  times,  and  I 
will  introduce  you  to  some  good  people  (mean- 
ing thieves)." 

I  went  with  him  to  his  home,  which  was  in 
a  tenement  house  in  the  lower  part  of  the  first 
ward.  He  introduced  me  to  his  wife  and 
children  and  a  number  of  dips,  burglars  and 
strong-armed  men  who  made  his  place  a  kind 
of  rendezvous.  We  talked  old  times  and 
graft,  and  the  wife  and  little  boy  of  eight 
years  old  listened  attentively.  The  boy  had 
[204] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

a  much  better  chance  to  learn  the  graft  than  I 
had  when  a  kid,  for  my  father  was  an  honest 
man. 

The  three  strong-arm  men  (highwaymen) 
were  a  study  to  me,  for  they  were  Westerners, 
with  any  amount  of  nerve.  One  of  them, 
Denver  Red,  a  big  powerful  fellow,  mentioned 
a  few  bits  he  had  done  in  Western  prisons, 
explained  a  few  of  his  grafts  and  seemed  to 
despise  New  York  guns,  whom  he  considered 
cowardly.  He  said  the  Easterners  feared  the 
police  too  much,  and  always  wanted  to  fix  things 
before  they  dared   to  graft. 

I  told  them  a  little  about  New  York  State 
penitentiaries,  and  then  Ted  said  to  Denver 
Red  :  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  big  fellow  ?  " 
Denver  grinned,  and  the  others  followed  suit, 
and  I  heard  the  latest  story.  A  well-known 
politician,  leader  of  his  district,  a  cousin  of 
Senator  Wet  Coin ;  a  man  of  gigantic  stature, 
with  the  pleasing  name,  I  will  say,  of  Flower, 
had  had  an  adventure.  He  is  even  better 
developed  physically  than  mentally,  and  vir- 
tually king  of  his  district,  and  whenever  he 
passes  by,  the  girls  bow  to  him,  the  petty  thief 
calls  him  "  Mister"  and  men  and  women  alike 
call  him  "  Big  Flower.  "  Well,  one  night  not 
[205] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

long  before  the  gathering  took  place  inTeddy's 
house,  Big  Flower  was  passing  through  the 
toughest  portion  of  his  bailiwick,  humming  rag- 
time, when  my  new  acquaintances,  the  three 
strong-arm  workers  from  the  West,  stuck  him 
up  with  cannisters,  and  relieved  him  of  a  five 
carat  diamond  stud,  a  gold  watch  and  chain 
and  a  considerable  amount  of  cash.  The  next 
day  there  was  consternation  among  the  clan 
of  the  Wet  Coins,  for  Big  Flower,  who  had 
been  thus  nipped,  was  their  idol.  We  all 
laughed  heartily  at  the  story,  and  I  went 
home  and  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  I  found  it  a  very  easy  thing 
to  drift  back  to  my  old  haunts.  In  the 
evening  I  went  to  a  sporting  house  on  Twen- 
ty-seventh Street,  where  a  number  of  guns 
hung  out.  I  got  the  glad  hand  and  an  invita- 
tion to  join  in  some  good  graft.  I  said  I  was 
done  with  the  Rocky  Path.  They  smiled  and 
gently  said :  **  We  have  been  there,  too, 
Jim." 

One  of  them  added  :  "  By  the  way,  I  hear 
you  are  up  against  the  hop,  Jim. "  It  was 
Billy,  and  he  invited  me  home  with  him. 
There  I  met  Ida,  as  pretty  a  little  shop  girl  as 
one  wants  to  see.  Billy  said  there  was  always 
[206] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

an  opening  for  me,  that  times  were  pretty 
good.  He  and  Ida  had  an  opium  layout,  and 
they  asked  me  to  take  a  smoke.  I  told  them 
my  nerves  were  not  right,  and  that  I  had  quit. 
"  Poor  fellow,  "  said  Billy. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  or  smell  of  the 
hop,  but  anyway  I  got  the  yen-yen  and  shook 
as  in  an  ague.  My  eyes  watered  and  I  grew 
as  pale  as  a  sheet.  I  thought  my  bones  were 
unjointing  and  took  a  pint  of  whiskey  ;  it  had 
no  effect.  Then  Billy  acted  as  my  physician 
and  prepared  a  pill  for  me.  So  vanished  one 
good  resolution.  My  only  excuse  to  myself 
was:  Human  nature  is  weak,  aint  it?  No 
sooner  had  I  taken  the  first  pill  than  a  feeling 
of  ecstasy  came  over  me.  I  became  talkative, 
and  Billy,  noticing  the  effect,  said:  "Jim, 
before  you  try  to  knock  off  the  hop,  you  had 
better  wait  till  you  reach  the  next  world. " 
The  opium  brought  peace  to  my  nerves  and 
dulled  my  conscience  and  I  had  a  long  talk 
with  Billy  and  Ida  about  old  pals.  They  told 
me  who  was  dead,  who  were  in  stir  and  who 
were  good  (  prosperous  ). 

Not  many  days  after  my  opium  fall  I  got  a 
note  from  Ethel,  who  had  heard  that  I  had 
come  home.     In  the  letter  she  said  that  she 
[207] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

was  not  happy  with  her  husband,  that  she  had 
married  to  please  her  father  and  to  get  a  com- 
fortable home.  She  wanted  to  make  an  ap- 
pointment to  meet  me,  whom,  she  said,  she 
had  always  loved.  I  knew  what  her  letter 
meant,  and  I  did  not  answer  it,  and  did  not  keep 
the  appointment.  My  relation  to  her  was  the 
only  decent  thing  in  my  life,  and  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  keep  it  right.  I  have  never 
seen  her  since  the  last  time  she  visited  me  at 
Auburn. 

For  some  time  after  getting  back  from  stir 
I  tried  for  a  job,  but  the  effort  was  only  half- 
hearted on  my  part,  and  people  did  not  fall 
over  themselves  in  their  eagerness  to  find 
something  for  the  ex-convict  to  do.  Even  if 
I  had  had  the  best  intentions  in  the  world, 
the  path  of  the  ex-convict  is  a  difficult  one,  as 
I  have  since  found.  I  was  run  down  physi- 
cally, and  could  not  carry  a  hod  or  do  any 
heavy  labor,  even  if  I  had  desired  to.  I  knew 
no  trade  and  should  have  been  forever  dis- 
trusted by  the  upper  world.  The  only  thing 
I  could  do  well  was  to  graft ;  and  the  only 
society  that  would  welcome  me  was  that  of 
the  under  world.  My  old  pals  knew  I  had 
the  requisite  nerve  and  was  capable  of  taking 
[208] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

my  place  in  any  good  mob.  My  resolutions 
began  to  ooze  away,  especially  as  at  that  time 
my  father  was  alive  and  making  enough  money 
to  support  the  rest  of  the  family.  So  I  had 
only  myself  to  look  out  for — and  that  was  a 
lot ;  for  I  had  my  old  habits,  and  new  ones  I 
had  formed  in  prison,  to  satisfy.  When  I 
stayed  quietly  at  home  I  grew  intensely  nerv- 
ous ;  and  soon  I  felt  that  I  was  bound  to  slip 
back  to  the  world  of  graft.  I  am  convinced 
that  I  would  never  have  returned  to  stir  or  to  my 
old  trade,  however,  if  my  environment  had  been 
different,  on  my  release,  from  what  it  had  been 
formerly ;  and  if  I  could  have  found  a  job.  I 
don't  say  this  in  the  way  of  complaint.  I  now 
know  that  a  man  can  reform  even  among  his 
old  associates.  It  is  impossible,  as  the  reader 
will  see,  I  believe,  before  he  finishes  this  book, 
for  me  ever  to  fall  back  again.  Some  men 
acquire  wisdom  at  twenty-one,  some  not  till 
they  are  thirty-five,  and  some  never.  Wisdom 
came  to  me  when  I  was  thirty-five.  If  I  had 
had  my  present  experience,  I  should  not  have 
fallen  after  my  first  bit ;  but  I  might  not  have 
fallen  anyway,  if  I  had  been  placed  in  a  better 
environment  after  my  first  term  in  prison.  A 
man  can  stand  alone,  if  he  is  strong  enough, 
[209] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

and  has  sufficient  reasons ;  but  if  he  is  totter- 
ing, he  needs  outside  help. 

I  was  tottering,  and  did  not  get  the  help, 
and  so  I  speedily  began  to  graft  again.  I 
started  in  on  easy  game,  on  picking  pockets 
and  simple  swindling.  I  made  my  first  touch, 
after  my  return,  on  Broadway.  One  day  I 
met  the  Kid  there,  looking  for  a  dollar  as  hard 
as  a  financier.  He  asked  me  if  I  was  not 
about  ready  to  begin  again,  and  pointed  out  a 
swell  Moll,  big,  breezy  and  blonde,  coming 
down  the  street,  with  a  large  wallet  sticking 
out  of  her  pocket.  It  seemed  easy,  with  no 
come-back  in  sight,  and  I  agreed  to  stall  for  the 
Kid.  Just  as  she  went  into  Denning's  which 
is  now  Wanamaker's,  I  went  in  ahead  of  her, 
turned  and  met  her.  She  stopped ;  and  at 
that  moment  the  Kid  nicked  her.  We  got 
away  all  right  and  found  in  the  wallet  over 
one  hundred  dollars  and  a  small  knife.  In 
the  knife  were  three  rivets,  which  we  discov- 
ered on  inspection  to  be  magnifying  glasses. 
We  applied  our  eyes  to  the  same  and  saw 
some  pictures  which  would  have  made  Mr. 
Anthony  Comstock  howl ;  if  he  had  found  this 
knife  on  this  aristocratic  lady  he  would  surely 
have  sent  her  to  the  penitentiary.       It  was  a 

[210] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

beautiful  pearl  knife,  gold  tipped,  and  must 
have  been  a  loss ;  and  yet  I  felt  I  was  justified 
in  taking  that  wallet.  I  thought  I  had  done 
the  lady  a  good  turn.  She  might  have  been 
fined,  and  why  shouldn't  I  have  the  money, 
rather  than  the  magistrate  ? 

The  Kid  was  one  of  the  cleverest  dips  I 
ever  knew ;  he  was  delicate  and  cunning,  and 
the  best  stone-getter  in  the  city.  But  he  had 
one  weakness  that  made  him  almost  a  devil. 
He  fell  in  love  with  every  pretty  face  he  saw, 
and  cared  no  more  for  leading  a  girl  astray 
than  I  minded  kicking  a  cat.  I  felt  sorry  for 
many  a  little  working  girl  he  had  shaken  after 
a  couple  of  weeks ;  and  I  used  to  jolly  them  to 
cheer  them  up. 

I  once  met  Kate,  one  of  them,  and  said, 
with  a  smile  :  "  Did  you  hear  about  the  Kid's 
latest?  Why  don't  you  have  him  arrested 
for  bigamy  ?  " 

She  did  not  smile  at  first,  but  said  :  **  He'll 
never  have  any  luck.  My  mother  is  a  widow, 
and  she  prays  to  God  to  afflict  him  with  a 
widow's  curse." 

"  One  of  the  Ten  Commandments,"  I  re- 
plied, "  says,  *  thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of 
the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain,'  and  between  you 

[211] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

and  me,  Kate,  the  commandment  does  not 
say  that  widows  have  the  monopoly  on  curs- 
ing. It  is  a  sin,  anyway,  whether  it  is  a  man, 
a  girl  or  a  widow." 

This  was  too  deep  for  Kate. 

"Stop  preaching,  Jim,"  she  said,  "and  give 
me  a  drink,"  and  I  did.  After  she  had  drunk 
half-a-dozen  glasses  of  beer  she  felt  better. 

Women  are  queer,  anyway.  No  matter 
how  bad  they  are,  they  are  always  good.  All 
women  are  thieves,  or  rather  petty  pilferers, 
bless  them  !  When  I  was  just  beginning  to 
graft  again,  and  was  going  it  easy,  I  used  to 
work  a  game  which  well  showed  the  natural 
grafting  propensities  of  women.  I  would  buy 
a  lot  of  Confederate  bills  for  a  few  cents,  and 
put  them  in  a  good  leather.  When  I  saw  a 
swell-looking  Moll,  evidently  out  shopping, 
walking  along  the  street,  I  would  drop  the 
purse  in  her  path  ;  and  just  as  she  saw  it  I 
would  pick  it  up,  as  if  I  had  just  found  it. 
Nine  women  out  of  ten  would  say,  "  It's  mine, 
I  dropped  it."  I  would  open  the  leather  and 
let  her  get  a  peep  of  the  bills,  and  that  would 
set  her  pilfering  propensities  going.  "  It's 
mine,"  she  would  repeat.  "What's  in  it?"  I 
would  hold  the  leather  carefully  away  from 

[212] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

her,  look  into  it  cautiously  and  say :  **  I  can 
see  a  twenty  dollar  bill,  a  thirty  dollar  bill,  and 
a  one  hundred  dollar  bill,  but  how  do  I  know 
you  dropped  it  ? "  Then  she'd  get  excited  and 
exclaim,  "If  you  don't  give  it  to  me  quick  I'll 
call  a  policeman."  "  Madam,"  I  would  reply, 
**  I  am  an  honest  workingman,  and  if  you  will 
give  me  ten  dollars  for  a  reward,  I  will  give 
you  this  valuable  purse."  Perhaps  she  would 
then  say  :  "  Give  me  the  pocket-book  and  I'll 
give  you  the  money  out  of  it."  To  that  I 
would  reply  :  "No,  Madam,  I  wish  you  to  re- 
ceive the  pocket-book  just  as  it  was."  I  would 
then  hand  her  the  book  and  she  would  give 
me  a  good  ten  dollar  bill.  "  There  is  a 
woman  down  the  street,"  I  would  continue, 
"looking  for  something."  That  would  alarm 
her  and  away  she  would  go  without  even  open- 
ing the  leather  to  see  if  her  money  was  all 
right.  She  wouldn't  shop  any  more  that  day, 
but  would  hasten  home  to  examine  her  treas- 
ure— worth,  as  she  would  discover  to  her  sor- 
row, about  thirty  cents.  Then,  no  doubt,  her 
conscience  would  trouble  her.  At  least,  she 
would  weep  ;  I  am  sure  of  that. 

When  I  got  my  hand  in  again,  I  began  to 
go  for  stone-getting,  which  was  a  fat  graft  in 
[213] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

those  days,  when  the  Lexow  committee  was 
beginning  their  reform.  Everybody  wore  a 
diamond.  Even  mechanics  and  farmers  were 
not  satisfied  unless  they  had  pins  to  stick  in 
their  ties.  They  bought  them  on  the  install- 
ment plan,  and  I  suppose  they  do  yet.  I 
could  always  find  a  laborer  or  a  hod-carrier 
that  had  a  stone.  They  usually  called  atten- 
tion to  it  by  keeping  their  hands  carefully  on 
it ;  and  very  often  it  found  its  way  into  my 
pocket,  for  carelessness  is  bound  to  come  as 
soon  as  a  man  thinks  he  Is  safe.  They  proba- 
bly thought  of  their  treasure  for  months  after- 
wards ;  at  least,  whenever  the  collector  came 
around  for  the  weekly  installments  of  pay  for 
stones  they  no  longer  possessed. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  met  General 
Brace  and  the  Professor.  One  was  a  Harvard 
graduate,  and  the  other  came  from  good  old 
Yale ;  and  both  were  grafters.  When  I  knew 
them  they  used  to  hang  out  in  a  joint  on 
Seventh  Street,  waiting  to  be  treated.  They 
had  been  good  grafters,  but  through  hop  and 
booze  had  come  down  from  forging  and  queer- 
shoving  to  common  shop-lifting  and  petty 
larceny  business.  General  Brace  was  very 
reticent  in  regard  to  his  family  and  his  own 
[214] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

past,  but  as  I  often  invited  him  to  smoke  opium 
with  me,  he  sometimes  gave  me  little  confiden- 
ces. I  learned  that  he  came  from  a  well-known 
Southern  family,  and  had  held  a  good  position 
in  his  native  city  ;  but  he  was  a  blood,  and  to 
satisfy  his  habits  he  began  to  forge  checks. 
His  relatives  saved  him  from  prison,  but  he 
left  home  and  started  on  the  downward  career 
of  graftdom.  We  called  him  General  Brace 
because  he  looked  like  a  soldier  and  was  con- 
tinually on  the  borrow ;  but  a  good  story 
always  accompanied  his  asking  for  a  loan  and 
he  was  seldom  refused.  I  have  often  listened 
to  this  man  after  he  had  smoked  a  quantity  of 
opium,  and  his  conversational  powers  were 
something  remarkable.  Many  a  gun  and 
politician  would  listen  to  him  with  wonder.  I 
used  to  call  him  General  Brace  Coleridge. 

The  Professor  was  almost  as  good  a  talker. 
We  used  to  treat  them  both,  in  order  to  get 
them  to  converse  together.  It  was  a  liberal 
education  to  hear  them  hold  forth  in  that  low- 
down  saloon,  where  some  of  the  finest  talks  on 
literature  and  politics  were  listened  to  with 
interest  by  men  born  and  bred  on  the  East 
Side,  with  no  more  education  than  a  turnip, 
but  with  keen  wits.  The  graduates  had  good 
[215] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

manners,  and  we  liked  them  and  staked  them 
regularly.  They  used  to  write  letters  for 
politicians  and  guns  who  could  not  read  or 
write.  They  stuck  together  like  brothers.  If 
one  of  them  had  five  cents,  he  would  go  into 
a  morgue  (gin-mill  where  rot-gut  whiskey  could 
be  obtained  for  that  sum)  and  pour  out  almost 
a  full  tumbler  of  booze.  Just  as  he  sipped 
a  little  of  the  rot-gut,  his  pal  would  come  in, 
as  though  by  accident.  If  it  was  the  General 
who  had  made  the  purchase,  he  would  say : 
"  Hello,  old  pal,  just  taste  this  fine  whiskey. 
It  tastes  like  ten-cent  stuff."  The  Professor 
would  take  a  sip  and  become  enthusiastic. 
They  would  sip  and  exclaim  in  turn,  until  the 
booze  was  all  gone,  and  no  further  expense 
incurred.  This  little  trick  grew  into  a  habit, 
and  the  bar-tender  got  on  to  it,  but  he  liked 
Colonel  Brace  and  the  Professor  so  much  that 
he  used  to  wink  at  it. 

I  was  in  this  rot-gut  saloon  one  day  when  I 

met  Jesse  R ,  with  whom  I  had  spent  several 

years  in  prison.  I  have  often  wondered  how 
this  man  happened  to  join  the  under  world  ; 
for  he  not  only  came  of  a  good  family  and  was 
well  educated,  but  was  also  of  a  good,  quiet 
disposition,  a  prime  favorite  in  stir  and  out. 
[216] 


At  the  Graft  Again, 

He  was  tactful  enough  never  to  roast  convicts, 
who  are  very  sensitive,  and  was  so  sympathetic 
that  many  a  heartache  was  poured  into  his  ear. 
He  never  betrayed  a  friend's  confidence. 

I  was  glad  to  meet  Jesse  again,  and  we 
exchanged  greetings  in  the  little  saloon. 
When  he  asked  me  what  I  was  doing,  I  replied 
that  I  had  a  mortgage  on  the  world  and  that 
I  was  trying  to  draw  my  interest  from  the 
same.  I  still  had  that  old  dream,  that  the 
world  owed  me  a  living.  I  confided  in  him 
that  I  regarded  the  world  as  my  oyster  more 
decidedly  than  I  had  done  before  I  met  him 
in  stir.  I  found  that  Jesse,  however,  had 
squared  it  for  good  and  was  absolutely  on  the 
level.  He  had  a  good  job  as  shipping  clerk 
in  a  large  mercantile  house  ;  when  I  asked  him 
if  he  was  not  afraid  of  being  tipped  off  by 
some  Central  Ofifice  man  or  by  some  stool- 
pigeon,  he  admitted  that  that  was  the  terror 
of  his  life ;  but  that  he  had  been  at  work  for 
eighteen  months,  and  hoped  that  none  of  his 
enemies  would  turn  up.  I  asked  him  who  had 
recommended  him  for  the  job,  and  I  smiled 
when  he  answered  :  "  General  Brace  ".  That 
clever  Harvard  graduate  often  wrote  letters 
which  were  of  assistance  to  guns  who  had 
[217] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

squared  it ;  though  the  poor  fellow  could  not 
take  care  of  himself. 

Jesse  had  a  story  to  tell  which  seemed  to 
me  one  of  the  saddest  I  have  heard :  and  as  I 
grew  older  I  found  that  most  all  stories  about 
people  in  the  under  world,  no  matter  how 
cheerfully  they  began,  ended  sadly.  It  was 
about  his  brother,  Harry,  the  story  that  Jesse 
told.  Harry  was  married,  and  there  is  where 
the  trouble  often  begins.  When  Jesse  was  in 
prison  Harry,  who  was  on  the  level  and  occu- 
pied a  good  position  as  a  book-keeper,  used  to 
send  him  money,  always  against  his  wife's 
wishes.  She  also  complained  because  Harry 
supported  his  old  father.  Harry  toiled  like  a 
slave  for  this  woman  who  scolded  him  and  who 
spent  his  money  recklessly.  He  made  a  good 
salary,  but  he  could  not  keep  up  with  her 
extravagance.  One  time,  while  in  the  coun- 
try, she  met  a  sporting  man,  Mr.  O.  B.  In  a 
few  weeks  it  was  the  old,  old  story  of  a  foolish 
woman  and  a  pretty  good  fellow.  While  she 
was  in  the  country,  her  young  son  was  drowned, 
and  she  sent  Harry  a  telegram  announcing  it. 
But  she  kept  on  living  high  and  her  name  and 
that  of  O.  B.  were  often  coupled.  Harry  tried 
to  stifle  his  sorrow  and  kept  on  sending  money 

[218] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

to  the  bladder  he  called  wife,  who  appeared  in 
a  fresh  new  dress  whenever  she  went  out  with 
Mr.  O.  B.  One  day  Harry  received  a  letter, 
calling  him  to  the  office  to  explain  his  accounts. 
He  replied  that  he  had  been  sick,  but  would 
straighten  everything  out  the  next  day.  When 
his  father  went  to  awaken  him  in  the  morning, 
Harry  was  dead.  A  phial  of  morphine  on  the 
floor  told  the  story.  Jesse  reached  his  brother's 
room  in  time  to  hear  his  old  father's  cry  of 
anguish  and  to  read  a  letter  from  Harry, 
explaining  that  he  had  robbed  the  firm  of 
thousands,  and  asking  his  brother  to  be  kind 
to  Helene,  his  wife. 

Then  Jesse  went  to  see  the  woman,  to  tell 
her  about  her  husband's  death.  He  found 
her  at  a  summer  hotel  with  Mr.  O.  B.,  and 
heard  the  servants  talk  about  them. 

"Jim,"  said  Jesse  to  me,  at  this  point  in 
the  story,  "  here  is  wise  council.  Wherever 
thou  goest,  keep  the  portals  of  thy  lugs  open  ; 
as  you  wander  on  through  life  you  are  apt  to 
hear  slander  about  your  women  folks.  What 
is  more  entertaining  than  a  little  scandal, 
especially  when  it  doesn't  hit  home  ?  But 
don't  look  into  it  too  deep,  for  it  generally 
turns  out  true,  or  worse.  I  laid  a  trap  for  my 
[219] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

poor  brother's  wife,  and  one  of  her  letters, 
making  clear  her  guilt,  fell  into  my  hands. 
A  telegram  in  reply  from  Mr.  O.  B.,  likewise 
came  to  me,  and  in  a  murderous  frame  of 
mind,  I  read  its  contents,  and  then  laughed 
like  a  hyena :  *  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  meet  you, 
but  I  was  married  this  morning,  and  am  going 
on  my  wedding  tour.  Au  Revoir.  '  You  ask 
me  what  became  of  my  sister-in-law  ?  Jim, 
she  is  young  and  pretty,  and  will  get  along  in 
this  world.  But,  truly,  the  wages  of  sin  is  to 
her  Living  Ashes.  " 

It  was  not  very  long  after  my  return  home 
that  I  was  at  work  again,  not  only  at  safe  dip- 
ping and  swindling,  but  gradually  at  all  my 
old  grafts,  including  more  or  less  house  work. 
There  was  a  difference,  however.  I  grew  far 
more  reckless  than  I  had  been  before  I  went 
to  prison.  I  now  smoked  opium  regularly, 
and  had  a  lay-out  in  my  furnished  room  and 
a  girl  to  run  it.  The  drug  made  me  take 
chances  I  never  used  to  take ;  and  I  became 
dead  to  almost  everything  that  was  good.  I 
went  home  very  seldom.  I  liked  my  family  in 
a  curious  way,  but  I  did  not  have  enough 
vitality  or  much  feeling  about  anything.  I 
began  to  go  out  to  graft  always  in  a  dazed 
[220] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

condition,  so  much  so  that  on  one  occasion  a 
pal  tried  to  take  advantage  of  my  state  of 
mind.  It  was  while  I  was  doing  a  bit  of  house- 
work with  Sandy  and  Hacks,  two  clever  graft- 
ers. We  inserted  into  the  lock  the  front  door 
key  which  we  had  made,  threw  off  the  tum- 
blers, and  opened  the  door.  Hacks  and  I 
stalled  while  Sandy  went  in  and  got  six  hun- 
dred dollars  and  many  valuable  jewels.  He 
did  not  show  us  much  of  the  money,  however. 
The  next  day  the  newspapers  described  the 
"  touch,"  and  told  the  amount  of  money  which 
had  been  stolen.  Then  I  knew  I  had  been 
"done"  by  Sandy  and  Hacks,  who  stood  in 
with  him,  but  Sandy  said  the  papers  were 
wrong.  The  mean  thief,  however,  could  not 
keep  his  mouth  shut,  and  I  got  him.  I  am 
glad  I  was  not  arrested  for  murder.  It  was  a 
close  shave,  for  I  cut  him  unmercifully  with  a 
knife.  In  this  I  had  the  approval  of  my 
friends,  for  they  all  believed  the  worst  thing  a 
grafter  could  do  was  to  sink  a  pal.  Sandy  did 
not  squeal,  but  he  swore  he  would  get  even 
with  me.  Even  if  I  had  not  been  so  reckless 
as  I  was  then,  I  would  not  have  feared  him, 
for  I  knew  there  was  no  come-back  in  him. 
Another  thing  the  dope  did  was  to  make 

[221  ] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

me  laugh  at  everything.  It  was  fun  for  me 
to  graft,  and  I  saw  the  humor  of  life.  I 
remember  I  used  to  say  that  this  world  is  the 
best  possible  ;  that  the  fine  line  of  cranks  and 
fools  in  it  gives  it  variety.  One  day  I  had  a 
good  laugh  in  a  Brooklyn  car.  Tim,  George 
and  I  got  next  to  a  Dutchman  who  had  a 
large  prop  in  his  tie.  He  stood  for  a  news- 
paper under  his  chin,  and  his  stone  came 
as  slick  as  grease.  A  minute  afterwards  he 
missed  his  property,  and  we  did  not  dare  to 
move.  He  told  his  wife,  who  was  with  him, 
that  his  stone  was  gone.  She  called  him  a 
fool,  and  said  that  he  had  left  it  at  home,  in 
the  bureau  drawer,  that  she  remembered  it 
well.  Then  he  looked  down  and  saw  that  his 
front  was  gone,  too.  He  said  to  his  wife :  "  I 
am  sure  I  had  my  watch  and  chain  with  me," 
but  his  wife  was  so  superior  that  she  easily 
convinced  him  he  had  left  it  at  home.  The 
wisdom  of  women  is  beyond  finding  out.  But 
I  enjoyed  that  incident.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  look  that  came  over  the  Dutchman's  face 
when  he  missed  his  front. 

I  was  too  sleepy  those  days  to  go  out  of 
town  much  on  the  graft ;  and  was  losing  my 
ambition  generally.     I  even  cared  very  little 

[  222  ] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

for  the  girls,  and  gave  up  many  of  my  amuse- 
ments. I  used  to  stay  most  of  the  time  in  my 
furnished  room,  smoking  hop.  When  I  went 
out  it  was  to  get  some  dough  quick,  and  to 
that  end  I  embraced  almost  any  means.  At 
night  I  often  drifted  into  some  concert  hall, 
but  it  was  not  like  the  old  days  when  I  was  a 
kid.  The  Bowery  is  far  more  respectable  now 
than  it  ever  was  before.  Twenty  years  ago 
there  was  no  worse  place  possible  for  ruining 
girls  and  making  thieves  than  Billy  McGlory's 
joint  on  Hester  Street.  About  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning  slumming  parties  would  chuckle 
with  glee  when  the  doors  at  McGlory's  would 
be  closed  and  young  girls  in  scanty  clothing, 
would  dance  the  can-can.  These  girls  would 
often  fight  together,  and  frequently  were 
beaten  unmercifully  by  the  men  who  lived  on 
them  and  their  trade.  Often  men  were  forci- 
bly robbed  in  these  joints.  There  was  little 
danger  of  an  arrest ;  for  if  the  sucker  squealed, 
the  policeman  on  the  beat  would  club  him  off 
to  the  beat  of  another  copper,  who  would 
either  continue  the  process,  or  arrest  him  for 
disorderly  conduct. 

At  this   time,    which   was   just   before   the 
Lexow  Committee  began  its  work,  there  were 
[223] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

at  least  a  few  honest  coppers.  I  knew  one, 
however,  that  did  not  remain  honest.  It 
happened  this  way.  The  guns  had  been  tear- 
ing open  the  cars  so  hard  that  the  street  car 
companies,  as  they  had  once  before,  got  after 
the  officials,  who  stirred  up  Headquarters. 
The  riot  act  was  read  to  the  dips.  This 
meant  that,  on  the  second  offense,  every  thief 
would  be  settled  for  his  full  time  and  that 
there  would  be  no  squaring  it.  The  guns  lay 
low  for  a  while,  but  two  very  venturesome 
grafters.  Mack  and  Jerry,  put  their  heads  to- 
gether and  reasoned  thus :  "  Now  that  the 
other  guns  are  alarmed  it  is  a  good  chance  for 
us  to  get  in  our  fine  work." 

Complaints    continued    to   come   in.     The 

police  grew  hot  and  sent  Mr.  F ,  a  flyman, 

to  get  the  rascals.  Mr.  F had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  the  most  honest  detective  on  the 
force.  He  often  declared  that  he  wanted  pro- 
motion only  on  his  merits.  Whenever  he  was 
overheard  in  making  this  remark  there  was  a 
quiet  smile  on  the  faces  of  the  other  coppers. 

F caught  Mack  dead  to  rights,  and,  not 

being  a  diplomat,   did  not  understand  when 

the  gun  tried  to  talk  reason  to  him.     Even  a 

large  piece  of  dough  did  not  help  his  intellect, 

[224] 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

and  Mack  was  taken  to  the  station-house. 
When  a  high  official  heard  about  it  he  swore 
by  all  the  gods  that  he  would  make  an  example 
of  that  notorious  pickpocket,  Mack  ;  but  human 
nature  is  weak,  especially  if  it  wears  buttons. 

Mack  sent  for  F 's  superior,  the  captain, 

and  the  following  dialogue  took  place : 

Captain  :     What  do  you  want  ? 

Mack  :     I'm  copped. 

Captain  :     Yes,  and  you're  dead  to  rights. 

Mack  :     I  tried  to  do  business  with  F . 

What  is  the  matter  with  him  ? 

Captain :  He  is  a  policeman.  He  wants 
his  promotion  by  merit.  (Even  the  Captain 
smiled.) 

Mack :  I'd  give  five  centuries  (five  hundred 
dollars)  if  I  could  get  to  my  summer  residence 
in  Asbury  Park. 

Captain  :  How  long  would  it  take  you  to 
get  it  ? 

Mack :  (He,  too,  was  laconic.)  I  got  it  on 
me. 

Captain  :     Give  it  here. 

Mack  :     It's  a  sure  turn-out  ? 

Captain  :  Was  I  ever  known  to  go  back 
on  my  word  ? 

Mack  handed  the  money  over,  and  went 
[225] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

over  to    court  in  the  afternoon    with   F . 

The  Captain  was  there,  and  whispered  to  F : 

"Throw    him    out."     That     nearly   knocked 

F down,  but  he  and  Mack  took  a  car,  and 

he  said  to  the  latter:  "In  the  name  of  every- 
thing how  did  you  hypnotize  the  old  man?" 
Mack  replied,  with  a  laugh :  "  I  tried  to 
mesmerize  you  in  the  same  way  ;  but  you  are 
working  on  your  merits." 

Mack   was  discharged,    and  F decided 

to  be  a  diplomat  henceforth.  From  an  honest 
copper  he  became  as  clever  a  panther  as  ever 
shook  coin  from  a  gun.  Isn't  it  likely  that  if 
a  man  had  a  large  income  he  would  never  go 
to  prison  ?  Indeed,  do  you  think  that  well- 
known  guns  could  graft  with  impunity  unless 
they  had  some  one  right  ?  Nay !  Nay ! 
Hannah.  They  often  hear  the  song  of  split 
half  or  no  graft. 

But  at  that  time  I  was  so  careless  that  I  did 
not  even  have  enough  sense  to  save  fall- 
money,  and  after  about  nine  months  of  free- 
dom I  fell  again.  One  day  three  of  us  boarded 
a  car  in  Brooklyn  and  I  saw  a  mark  whom  I 
immediately  nicked  for  his  red  super,  which  I 
passed  quickly  to  one  of  my  stalls,  Eddy. 
We  got  off  the  car  and  walked  about  three 
[226  J 


At  the  Graft  Again. 

blocks,  when  Eddy  flashed  the  super,  to  look 
at  it.  The  sucker,  who  had  been  tailing,  blew, 
and  Eddy  threw  the  watch  to  the  ground,  fear, 
ing  that  he  would  be  nailed.  A  crowd  gathered 
around  the  super,  I  among  them,  the  other 
stall,  Eddy  having  vamoosed,  and  the  sucker. 
No  man  in  his  senses  would  have  picked  up 
that  gold  watch.  But  I  did  it  and  was  nailed 
dead  to  rights.  I  felt  that  super  belonged  to 
me.  I  had  nicked  it  cleverly,  and  I  thought  I 
had  earned  it !  I  was  sentenced  to  four  years 
in  Sing  Sing,  but  I  did  not  hang  my  head  with 
shame,  this  time,  as  I  was  taken  to  the  station. 
It  was  the  way  of  life  and  of  those  I  associated 
with,  and  I  was  more  a  fatalist  than  ever.  I 
hated  all  mankind  and  cared  nothing  for  the 
consequences  of  my  acts. 


[227] 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Back  to  Prison. 

I  WAS  not  recognized  by  the  authorities  at 
Sing  Sing  as  having  been  there  before.  I 
gave  a  different  name  and  pedigree,  of  course, 
but  the  reason  I  was  not  known  as  a  second- 
timer  was  that  I  had  spent  only  nine  months 
at  Sing  Sing  on  my  first  term,  the  remainder 
having  been  passed  at  Auburn.  There  was  a 
new  warden  at  Sing  Sing,  too,  and  some  of 
the  other  officials  had  changed ;  and,  besides, 
I  must  have  been  lucky.  Anyway,  none  of 
the  keepers  knew  me,  and  this  meant  a  great 
deal  to  me ;  for  if  I  had  been  recognized  as  a 
second-timer  I  should  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
extra  time  to  serve.  On  my  first  term  I  had 
received  commutation  time  for  good  behavior 
amounting  to  over  a  year,  and  there  is  a  rule 
that  if  a  released  convict  is  sent  back  to 
prison,  he  must  serve,  not  only  the  time  given 
him  on  his  second  sentence,  but  the  commuta- 
tion time  on  his  first  bit.  Somebody  must 
[228] 


Back  to  Prison. 

have  been  very  careless,  for  I  beat  the  State 
out  of  more  than  a  year. 

Some  of  the  convicts,  indeed,  knew  that  I 
had  served  before ;  but  they  did  not  squeal. 
Even  some  of  those  who  did  not  know  me 
had  an  inkling  of  it,  but  would  not  tell.  It 
was  still  another  instance  of  honor  among 
thieves.  If  they  had  reported  me  to  the  au- 
thorities, they  might  have  had  an  easier  time 
in  stir  and  had  many  privileges,  such  as  better 
jobs  and  better  things  to  eat.  There  were 
many  stool-pigeons  there,  of  course,  but  some- 
how these  rats  did  not  get  wind  of  me. 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  get  the  Under- 
ground Tunnel  in  working  order  again,  and  I 
received  contraband  letters,  booze,  opium  and 
morphine  as  regularly  as  on  my  first  bit.  One 
of  the  screws  running  the  Tunnel  at  the  time. 

Jack  R ,  was  a  little  heavier  in  his  demands 

than  I  thought  fair.  He  wanted  a  third  in- 
stead of  a  fifth  of  the  money  sent  the  convicts 
from  home.  But  he  was  a  good  fellow,  and 
always  brought  in  the  hop  as  soon  as  it  arrived. 
Like  the  New  York  police  he  was  hot  after 
the  stuff,  but  who  can  blame  him  ?  He  wanted 
to  rise  in  the  world,  and  was  more  ambitious 
than  the  other  screws.  I  continued  my  pipe 
[229] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

dreams,  and  my  reading  ;  indeed,  they  were 
often  connected.  I  frequently  used  to  im- 
agine that  I  was  a  character  in  one  of  the 
books ;  and  often  choked  the  detestable  Tar- 
quin  into  insensibility. 

On  one  occasion  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
arraigned  before  my  Maker  and  charged  with 
murder.  I  cried  with  fear  and  sorrow,  for  I 
felt  that  even  before  the  just  God  there  was 
no  justice;  but  a  voice  silenced  me  and  said 
that  to  be  guilty  of  the  crime  of  murder,  it  was 
not  necessary  to  use  weapons  or  poison.  Sud- 
denly I  seemed  to  see  the  sad  faces  of  my 
father  and  mother,  and  then  I  knew  what  the 
voice  meant.  Indeed,  I  was  guilty.  I  heard 
the  word,  "  Begone,"  and  sank  into  the  abyss. 
After  many  thousand  years  of  misery  I  was 
led  into  the  Chamber  of  Contentment  where 
I  saw  some  of  the  great  men  whose  books  I 
had  read.  Voltaire,  Tom  Paine  and  Galileo 
sat  on  a  throne,  but  when  I  approached  them 
with  awe,  the  angel,  who  had  the  face  of  a 
keeper,  told  me  to  leave.  I  appealed  to  Vol- 
taire, and  begged  him  not  to  permit  them  to 
send  me  among  the  hymn-singers.  He  said 
he  pittied  me,  but  that  I  was  not  fit  to  be 
with  the  great  elect.  I  asked  him  where  Dr. 
[230] 


Back  to  Prison. 

Parkhurst  was,  and  he  answered  that  the  doc- 
tor was  hot  stuff  and  had  evaporated  long 
ago.  I  was  led  away  sorrowing,  and  awoke 
in  misery  and  tears,  in  my  dark  and  damp 
cell. 

On  this  bit  I  was  assigned  to  the  clothing 
department,  where  I  stayed  six  months,  but 
did  very  little  work.  Warden  Sage  replaced 
Warden  Darson  and  organized  the  system  of 
stool-pigeons  in  stir  more  carefully  than  ever 
before ;  so  it  was  more  difficult  than  it  was 
before  to  neglect  our  work.  I  said  to  Sage 
one  day  :  "  You're  a  cheap  guy.  You  ought 
to  be  President  of  a  Woman's  Sewing  Society. 
You  can  do  nothing  but  make  an  aristocracy 
of  stool-pigeons."  I  gave  up  work  after  six 
months  because  of  my  health,  which  had  been 
bad  for  a  long  time,  but  now  grew  worse. 
My  rapid  life  on  the  outside,  my  bad  habits, 
and  my  experience  in  prison  were  beginning  to 
tell  on  me  badly.  There  was  a  general  break- 
ing-down of  my  system.  I  was  so  weak  and 
coughed  so  badly  that  they  thought  I  was 
dying.  The  doctors  said  I  had  consumption 
and  transferred  me  to  the  prison  hospital, 
where  I  had  better  air  and  food  and  was  far 
more  confortable  in  body  but  terribly  low  in 
[231] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

my  mind.  I  was  so  despondent  that  I  did  not 
even  *'  fan  my  face "  (turn  my  head  away  to 
avoid  having  the  outside  world  become  famil- 
iar with  my  features)  when  visitors  went 
through  the  hospital.  This  was  an  unusual 
degree  of  carelessness  for  a  professional  gun. 
One  reason  I  was  so  gloomy  was  that  I  was 
now  unable  to  get  hold  of  my  darling  hop. 

I  was  so  despondent  in  the  hospital  that  I 
really  thought  I  should  soon  become  an  angel ; 
and  my  environment  was  not  very  cheerful,  for 
several  convicts  died  on  beds  near  me.  When- 
ever anybody  was  going  to  die,  every  convict 
in  the  prison  knew  about  it,  for  the  attendants 
would  put  three  screens  around  the  dying 
man's  bed.  There  were  about  twenty  beds  in 
the  long  room,  and  near  me  was  an  old  boy- 
hood pal,  Tommy  Ward,  in  the  last  stages  of 
consumption.  Tommy  and  I  often  talked 
together  about  death,  and  neither  of  us  was 
afraid  of  it.  I  saw  a  dozen  men  die  during  my 
experience  in  state  prisons  and  I  never  heard 
one  of  them  clamor  for  a  clergyman.  Tommy 
was  doing  life  for  murder,  and  ought  to  have 
been  afraid  of  death,  if  anyone  was.  But 
when  he  was  about  to  die,  he  sent  word  to  me 
to  come  to  his  bedside,  and  after  a  word  or  two 
[232] 


Back  to  Prison. 

of  good-bye  he  went  into  his  agony.  The  last 
words  he  ever  said  were  :  "  Ah,  give  me  a  big 
Peter  (narcotic)  ."  He  did  not  receive  the 
last  rites  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  his  ignor- 
ant family  refused  to  bury  him.  So  Tommy's 
cell  number  was  put  on  the  tombstone,  if  it 
could  be  called  such,  which  marked  his  grave 
in  the  little  burying  ground  outside  the  prison 
walls. 

Indeed,  it  is  not  easy  to  throw  the  religious 
con  (confidence  game)  into  a  convict.  Often, 
while  we  were  in  chapel,  the  dominie  would 
tell  us  that  life  was  short ;  but  hardly  one  of 
the  six  or  seven  hundred  criminals  who  were 
listening  believed  the  assertion.  They  felt 
that  the  few  years  they  were  doing  for  the 
good  of  their  country  were  as  long  as  centu- 
ries. If  there  were  a  few  "cons"  who  tried 
the  cheerful  dodge,  they  did  not  deceive  any- 
body, for  their  brother  guns  knew  that  they 
were  sore  in  their  hearts  because  they  had 
been  caught  without  fall-money,  and  so  had 
to  serve  a  few  million  years  in  stir. 

After  I  got  temporarily  better  in  health  and 

had  left  the  hospital,   I  began  to    read    Lav- 

ater  on  physiognomy  more  industriously  than 

ever.     With  his  help  I  became  a  close  student 

[233] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

of  faces,  and  I  learned  to  tell  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  my  fellow  convicts.  I 
watched  them  at  work  and  when  their  faces 
flushed  I  knew  they  were  thinking  of  Her. 
Sometimes  I  would  ask  a  man  how  She  was, 
and  he  would  look  confused,  and  perhaps 
angry  because  his  day  dream  was  disturbed. 
And  how  the  men  used  to  look  at  women  visi- 
tors who  went  through  the  shops  !  It  was 
against  the  rules  to  look  at  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Upper  World  who  visited  stir,  but  I  noticed 
that  after  women  visitors  had  been  there  the 
convicts  were  generally  more  cheerful.  Even 
a  momentary  glimpse  of  those  who  lived  with- 
in the  pale  of  civilization  warmed  their  hearts. 
After  the  ladies  had  gone  the  convicts  would 
talk  about  them  for  hours.  Many  of  their 
remarks  were  vulgar  and  licentious,  but  some 
of  the  men  were  broken  down  with  feeling  and 
would  say  soft  things.  They  would  talk  about 
their  mothers  and  sweethearts  and  eventually 
drift  back  on  their  ill-spent  lives.  How  often 
I  thought  of  the  life  behind  me !  Then  I 
would  look  at  the  men  about  me,  some  of 
whom  had  stolen  millions  and  had  interna- 
tional reputations — but  all  discouraged  now, 
broken  down  in  health,  penniless  and  friend^ 
[234] 


Back  to  Prison. 

less.  If  a  man  died  in  stir  he  was  just  a  cada- 
ver for  the  dissecting  table,  nothing  more. 
The  end  fitted  in  well  with  his  misspent  life. 
These  reflections  would  bring  us  around  again 
to  good  resolutions. 

People  who  have  never  broken  the  law — I 
beg  pardon,  who  were  never  caught — can  not 
understand  how  a  man  who  has  once  served 
in  stir  will  take  another  chance  and  go  back 
and  suffer  the  same  tortures.  A  society  lady 
I  once  met  said  she  thought  criminals  who  go 
on  grafting,  when  they  know  what  the  result 
will  be,  must  be  lacking  in  imagination.  I  re- 
plied to  her :  "  Madam,  why  do  you  lace 
tight  and  indulge  in  social  dissipation  even 
after  you  know  it  is  bad  for  the  health  ?  You 
know  it  is  a  strain  on  your  nerves,  but  you  do 
it.  Is  it  because  you  have  no  imagination  ? 
That  which  we  all  dread  most — death — we  all 
defy." 

The  good  book  says  that  all  men  shall  earn 
their  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow,  but  we 
grafters  make  of  ourselves  an  exception,  with 
that  overweening  egotism  and  brash  desire  to 
do  others  with  no  return,  which  is  natural  to 
everybody.  Only  when  the  round-up  comes, 
either  in  the  sick  bed  or  in  the  toils,  we  often 
L235] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

can  not  bear  our  burdens  and  look  around  to 
put  the  blame  on  someone  else.  If  a  man  is 
religious,  why  should  he  not  drop  it  on  Jesus  ? 
Man  !  How  despicable  at  times  !  How  un- 
gallant  to  his  ancestor  of  the  softer  sex ! 
From  time  immemorial  he  has  exclaimed : 
"  Only  for  her,  the  deceiving  one,  my  better 
half,  I  should  be  perfect." 

Convicts,  particularly  if  they  are  broken  in 
health,  often  become  like  little  children.  It 
is  not  unusual  for  them  to  grow  dependent  on 
dumb  pets,  which  they  smuggle  into  prison  by 
means  of  the  Underground  Tunnel.  The 
man  in  stir  who  has  a  white  mouse  or  robin  is 
envied  by  the  other  convicts,  for  he  has  some- 
thing to  love.  If  an  artist  could  only  witness 
the  affection  that  is  centered  on  a  mouse  or 
dog,  if  he  could  only  depict  the  emotions  in 
the  hard  face  of  the  criminal,  what  a  story  !  I 
had  a  white  rat,  which  I  had  obtained  with 
difficulty  through  the  Underground.  I  used  to 
put  him  up  my  sleeve,  and  he  would  run  all 
over  my  body,  he  was  so  tame.  He  would 
stand  on  his  hind  legs  or  lie  down  at  my  com- 
mand. Sometimes,  when  I  was  lonely  and 
melancholy,  I  loved  this  rat  like  a  human 
being. 

[236] 


Back  to  Prison. 

In  May,  1896,  when  I  still  had  about  a  year 
to  serve  on  my  second  term,  a  rumor  circulated 
through  the  prison  that  some  of  the  Salvation 
Army  were  going  to  visit  the  stir.  The  men 
were  greatly  excited  at  the  prospect  of  a  break 
in  the  dreary  routine.  I  imagined  that  a  big 
burly  Salvationist,  beating  a  drum,  with  a 
few  very  thin  Salvation  lasses,  would  march 
through  the  prison  yard.  I  was  dumbfounded 
by  the  reality,  for  I  saw  enter  the  Protestant 
chapel,  which  was  crowded  with  eager  convicts, 
two  delicate,  pretty  women.  No  actor  or  act- 
ress ever  got  a  warmer  welcome  than  that 
given  to  Mrs.  Booth  and  her  secretary.  Captain 
Jennie  Hughes.  After  the  clapping  of  hands 
and  cheering  had  ceased,  Mrs.  Booth  arose 
and  made  a  speech,  which  was  listened  to  in 
deep  silence.  Certainly  she  was  eloquent,  and 
what  she  said  impressed  many  an  old  gun. 
She  was  the  first  visitor  who  ever  promised 
practical  Christianity  and  eventually  carried 
out  the  promise.  She  promised  to  build 
homes  for  us  after  our  release  ;  and  in  many 
cases,  she  did,  and  we  respect  her.  She  spoke 
for  an  hour,  and  afterwards  granted  private 
interviews,  and  many  of  the  convicts  told  her 
all  their  troubles,  and  she  promised  to  take 
[237] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

care  of  their  old  mothers,  daughters  and 
wives. 

Before  leaving  the  chapel,  she  sang :  "  O 
Lord,  let  the  waves  of  thy  crimson  sea  roll 
over  me."  I  did  not  see  how  such  a  pretty, 
intelligent,  refined  and  educated  woman  could 
say  such  a  bloody  thing,  but  she  probably  had 
forgotten  what  the  words  really  meant.  At 
any  rate,  she  is  a  good  woman,  for  she  tried 
hard  to  have  the  Parole  Bill  passed.  That 
bill  has  recently  become  a  law,  and  it  is  a 
good  one,  in  my  opinion  ;  but  it  has  one  fault. 
It  only  effects  first-timers.  The  second  and 
third  timers,  who  went  to  Sing  Sing  years  ago 
when  there  was  contract  labor  and  who  worked 
harder  than  any  laborer  in  New  York  City, 
ought  to  have  a  chance,  too.  Show  a  little 
confidence  in  any  man,  even  though  he  be  a 
third-timer,  as  I  have  been,  and  he  will  be  a 
better  man  for  it. 

After  the  singing,  on  that  first  morning  of 
Mrs.  Booth's  visit,  she  asked  those  convicts 
who  wanted  to  lead  a  better  life  to  stand  up. 
About  seventy  men  out  of  the  five  or  six  hun- 
dred arose,  and  the  others  remained  seated. 
I  was  not  among  those  who  stood  up.  I 
never  met  anybody  who  could  touch  me  in 
[238] 


Back  to  Prison. 

that  way.  I  don't  believe  in  instantaneous 
Christianity.  I  knew  half  a  dozen  of  the  men 
who  stood  up,  and  they  were  not  very  strong 
mentally.  I  often  wondered  what  the  motives 
were  that  moved  the  men  in  that  manner. 
Man  is  a  social  animal,  and  Mrs.  Booth  was 
a  magnetic  woman.  After  I  had  heard  her 
speak  once,  I  knew  that.  She  had  a  good 
personal  appearance  and  one  other  requisite 
that  appealed  strongly  to  those  who  were  in 
our  predicament — her  sex.  Who  could  en- 
tirely resist  the  pleadings  of  a  pretty  woman 
with  large  black  eyes  ? 

Certainly  I  was  moved  by  this  sincere  and 
attractive  woman,  but  my  own  early  religious 
training  had  made  me  suspicious  of  the  whole 
business.  Whenever  anybody  tried  to  reform 
me  through  Christianity  I  always  thought  of 
that  powerful  Celt  who  used  to  rush  at  me  in 
Sunday  school  with  a  hickory  stick  and  shout 
"Who  made  you?"  And  I  don't  think  that 
most  of  the  men  who  profess  religion  in  prison 
are  sincere.  They  usually  want  to  curry  favor 
with  the  authorities,  or  get  "staked"  after 
they  leave  stir.  One  convict,  whom  I  used  to 
call  "The Great  American  Identifier,"  because 
he  used  to  graft  by  claiming  to  be  a  relative 
[239] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

of  everybody  that  died,  from  California  to 
Maine  and  weeping  over  the  dead  body,  was 
the  worst  hypocrite  I  ever  saw — a  regular 
Uriah  Heep.  He  was  one  of  Mrs.  Booth's 
converts  and  stood  up  in  chapel.  After  she 
went  away  he  said  to  me :  "  What  a  blessing 
has  been  poured  into  my  soul  since  I  heard 
Mrs.  Booth."  Another  hypocrite  said  to  me 
on  the  same  occasion  :  "  I  don't  know  what  I 
would  do  only  for  Mrs.  Booth.  She  has 
lightened  my  weary  burdens."  Now,  I  would 
not  trust  either  of  those  men  with  a  box  of 
matches  ;  and  so  I  said  to  the  Great  American 
Identifier:  "You  are  the  meanest,  most  des- 
picable thief  in  the  whole  stir.  I'd  respect 
you  if  you  had  the  nerve  to  rob  a  live  man, 
but  you  always  stole  from  a  cadaver."  He 
was  horrified  at  my  language  and  began  to 
talk  of  a  favorite  subject  with  him — his  wealthy 
relatives. 

Some  of  these  converts  were  not  hypocrites, 
but  I  don't  think  even  they  received  any  good 
from  their  conversion.  Some  people  go  to 
religion  because  they  have  nothing  else  to  dis- 
tract their  thoughts,  and  the  subject  some- 
times is  a  mania  with  them.  The  doctors 
say  that  there  is  only  one  incurable  mental 
[240] 


Back  to  Prison. 

disease — religious  insanity.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  reformers  Mrs.  Booth  does  a  great  thing 
by  making  some  of  us  converts,  but  experts  in 
mental  diseases  declare  that  it  is  very  bad  to 
excite  convicts  to  such  a  pitch.  Many  of  the 
weak-minded  among  them  lose  their  balance 
and  become  insane  through  these  violent  re- 
ligious emotions. 

I  did  not  meet  so  many  of  the  big  guns  on 
my  second  term  as  on  my  first ;  but,  of  course, 
I  came  across  many  of  my  old  pals  and  formed 
some  new  acquaintances.  It  was  on  this  term 
that  four  of  us  used  to  have  what  I  called  a 
tenement  house  oratory  talk  whenever  we 
worked  together  in  the  halls.  Some  of  us 
were  lucky  enough  at  times  to  serve  as  barbers, 
hall-men  and  runners  to  and  from  the  shops, 
and  we  used  to  gather  together  in  the  halls  and 
amuse  ourselves  with  conversation.  Dickey, 
Mull,  Mickey  and  I  became  great  pals  in  this 
way.  Dickey  was  a  desperate  river  pirate 
who  would  not  stand  a  roast  from  anybody, 
but  was  well  liked.  Mull  was  one  of  the  best 
principled  convicts  I  ever  knew  in  my  life. 
He  was  quiet,  delicate  and  manly,  and  opposed 
to  abusing  young  boys,  yet  if  you  did  him  an 
injury  he  would  cut  the  liver  out  of  you.  He 
[241] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

was  a  good  fellow.  Mickey  was  what  I  called 
a  tenement  house  philosopher.  He'd  stick  his 
oar  into  every  bit  of  talk  that  was  started. 
One  day  the  talk  began  on  Tammany  Hall 
and  went  something  like  this  : 

"  All  crooked  officials,"  said  Mull,  "  includ- 
ing all  of  them,  ought  to  be  railroaded  to  Sing 
Sing." 

Dickey:  "Through  their  methods  the 
county  offices  are  rotten  from  the  judge  to  the 
policeman." 

Mull:     "  I  agree  with  you." 

Mickey:  "Ah,  wat's  the  matter  wid  Tam- 
many? My  old  man  never  voted  any  other 
ticket.  Neither  did  yours.  When  you  get 
into  stir  you  act  like  college  professors.  Why 
don't  you  practice  what  you  spout  ?  I  always 
voted  the  Tammany  ticket — five  or  six  times 
every  election  day.  How  is  it  I  never  got  a 
long  bit?" 

Mull:  "How  many  times,  Mickey,  have 
you  been  in  stir  ?  " 

Mickey:  "This  is  the  fourth,  but  the  high- 
est I  got  was  four  years." 

Dickey:  "You  never  done  anything  big 
enough  to  get  four." 

Mickey:  "  I  didn't,  eh  ?  You  have  been 
[242] 


Back  to  Prison. 

hollering  that  you  are  innocent,  and  get 
twenty  years  for  piracy.  I  only  get  four,  but 
I  am  guilty  every  time.  There  is  a  big  differ- 
ence between  that  and  twenty,  aint  it  ?  " 

Mull  slapped  Mickey  on  the  back  and  said  : 
"  Never  mind.  You  will  get  yours  yet  on  the 
installment  plan."  Then,  turning  to  me,  Mull 
asked  :  "Jim,  don't  you  think  that  if  every- 
thing was  square  and  on  the  level  we'd  stand 
a  better  chance  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied.  '*  In  the  first  place  we  have 
not  reached  the  millennium.  In  the  second 
place  they  would  devise  some  legal  scheme  to 
keep  a  third  timer  the  rest  of  his  natural  days. 
I  know  a  moccasin  who  would  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  have  such  a  bill  passed,  and  he  is 
one  of  the  crookedest  philanthropists  in  Amer- 
ica to-day.  I  am  a  grafter,  and  I  believe  that 
the  present  administration  is  all  right.  I 
know  that  I  can  stay  out  of  prison  as  long  as 
I  save  my  fall-money.  When  I  blow  that  in  I 
ought  to  go  to  prison.  Every  gun  who  is  cap- 
able of  stealing,  knows  that  if  he  puts  by 
enough  money  he  can  not  only  keep  out  of 
stir  but  can  beat  his  way  into  heaven.  I'm 
arguing  as  a  professional  thief." 

This  was  too  much  for  Mickey,  who  said : 
[243] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

"Why  don't  you  talk  United  States  and  not  be 
springing  whole  leaves  out  of  a  dictionary  ?  " 

Just  then  Big  Jim  came  up.  He  had  heard 
what  I  said  and  he  joined  in :  "  You  know 
why  I  got  the  tenth  of  a  century?  I  had 
thousands  in  my  pocket  and  went  to  buy  some 
silk  underwear  at  a  haberdasher's  in  New  York. 
But  it  seemed  to  me  a  waste  of  good  coin  to 
buy  them,  so  I  stole  a  dozen  pair  of  silk  stock- 
ings. They  tried  to  arrest  me,  I  shot,  and  got 
ten  years.  I  always  did  despise  a  petty  thief, 
but  I  never  felt  like  kicking  him  till  then. 
Ten  years  for  a  few  stockings  !  Can  you 
blame  the  judge?  I  didn't.  Even  a  judge 
admires  a  good  thief.  If  I  had  robbed  a  bank 
I'd  never  have  got  such  a  long  bit.  The  old 
saying  is  true :  Kill  one  man  and  you  will  be 
hanged.  Kill  sixteen,  and  the  United  States 
Government  is  likely  to  pension  you." 

The  tenement-house  philosopher  began  to 
object  again,  when  the  guard,  as  usual,  came 
along  to  stop  our  pleasant  conversation.  He 
thought  we  were  abusing  our  privileges. 

It  was  during  this  bit  that  I  met  the  man 

with  the  white  teeth,    as   he   is    now   known 

among  his  friends.     I  will  call  him  Patsy,  and 

tell  his  story,  for  it  is  an  unusual  one.     He 

[244] 


Back  to  Prison. 

was  a  good  deal  older  man  than  I  and  was 
one  of  the  old-school  burglars,  and  a  good 
one.  They  were  a  systematic  lot,  and  would 
shoot  before  they  stood  the  collar ;  but  they 
were  gentlemanly  grafters  and  never  abused 
anybody.  The  first  thing  Patsy's  mob  did 
after  entering  a  house  was  to  round  up  all  the 
inmates  and  put  them  into  one  room.  There 
one  burglar  would  stick  them  up  with  a  revol- 
ver, while  the  others  went  through  the  house. 
On  a  fatal  occasion  Patsy  took  the  daughter 
of  the  house,  a  young  girl  of  eighteen  or 
nineteen,  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  down 
stairs  into  the  room  where  the  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily had  been  put  by  the  other  grafters.  As 
he  carried  the  girl  down  stairs,  she  said  :  "  Mr. 
Burglar,  don't  harm  me.  "  Patsy  was  masked, 
all  but  his  mouth,  and  when  he  said:  "You 
are  as  safe  as  if  you  were  in  your  father's 
arms,  "  she  saw  his  teeth,  which  were  remark- 
ably fine  and  white.  Patsy  afterwards  said 
that  the  girl  was  not  a  bit  alarmed,  and  was 
such  a  perfect  coquette  that  she  noticed  his 
good  points.  The  next  morning  she  told  the 
police  that  one  of  the  bad  men  had  a  beauti- 
ful set  of  teeth.  The  flymen  rounded  up  half 
a  dozen  grafters  on  suspicion,  among  them 
[245] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

Patsy ;  and  no  sooner  did  he  open  his  mouth, 
than  he  was  recognized,  and  settled  for  a  long 
bit.  Poor  Patsy  has  served  altogether  about 
nineteen  years,  but  now  he  has  squared  it,  and 
is  a  waiter  in  a  Bowery  saloon,  more  content 
with  his  twelve  dollars  a  week  than  he  used  to 
be  with  his  thousands.  I  often  go  around 
and  have  a  glass  with  him.  He  is  now  a 
quiet,  sober  fellow,  and  his  teeth  are  as  fine 
as  ever. 

One  day  a  man  named  "  Muir, "  a  mean, 
sure-thing  grafter,  came  to  the  stir  on  a  visit 
to  some  of  his  acquaintances.  He  had  never 
done  a  bit  himself,  although  he  was  a  notori- 
ous thief.  But  he  liked  to  look  at  the  misfor- 
tunes of  others,  occasionally.  On  this  visit 
he  got  more  than  he  bargained  for.  He  came 
to  the  clothing  department  where  Mike,  who 
had  grafted  with  Muir  in  New  York,  and  I, 
were  at  work.  Muir  went  up  to  Mike  and 
offered  him  a  bill.  Mike  threw  it  in  Muir's 
face  and  called  him — well,  the  worst  thing 
known  in  Graftdom.  "  If  it  wasn't  for  you,  " 
he  said,  "  I  wouldn't  be  doing  this  bit.  " 

There  are  several  kinds  of  sure-thing  grafters. 
Some  are  crooked  gamblers,  some  are  plain 
stool-pigeons,    some  are  discouraged   thieves 
[246] 


Back  to  Prison. 

who  continue  to  graft  but  take  no  risks. 
Muir  was  one  of  the  meanest  of  the  rats  that  I 
have  known,  yet  in  a  way,  he  was  handy 
to  the  professional  gun.  He  had  somebody 
"  right "  at  headquarters  and  could  generally 
get  protection  for  his  mob ;  but  he  would 
always  throw  the  mob  over  if  it  was  to  his 
advantage.  He  and  two  other  house-work 
men  robbed  a  senator's  home,  and  such  a 
howl  went  up  that  the  police  offered  all  man- 
ner of  protection  to  the  grafter  who  would  tip 
them  off  to  who  got  the  stuff.  Grafters  who 
work  with  the  coppers  don't  want  it  known 
among  those  of  their  own  kind,  for  they  would 
be  ostracized.  If  they  do  a  dirty  trick  they 
try  to  throw  it  on  someone  else  who  would  not 
stoop  to  such  a  thing.  Muir  was  a  diplomat, 
and  tipped  off  the  Central  Office,  and  those 
who  did  the  trick,  all  except  Tom  and  Muir, 
were  nailed.  A  few  nights  after  that  the 
whisper  was  passed  among  guns  of  both  sexes, 
who  had  gathered  at  a  resort  up-town,  that 
somebody  had  squealed.  The  muttered  curses 
meant  that  some  Central  Office  man  had  by 
wireless  telegraphy  put  the  under  world  next 
that  somebody  had  tipped  off  the  police.  But 
it  was  not  Muir  that  the  hard  names  were 
[247] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

said  against :  the  Central  Office  man  took 
care  of  that.  With  low  cunning  Muir  had 
had  the  rumor  circulated  that  it  was  Tom  who 
had  thrown  them  down,  and  Tommy  was 
ostracized. 

I  knew  Muir  and  I  knew  Tommy,  and  I 
was  sure  that  the  latter  was  innocent.  Some 
time  after  Tom  had  been  cut  by  the  rest  of 
the  gang  I  saw  Muir  drinking  with  two  Central 
Office  detectives,  in  a  well-known  resort,  and  I 
was  convinced  that  he  was  the  rat.  His  per- 
sonal appearance  bore  out  my  suspicion.  He 
had  a  weak  face,  with  no  fight  in  it.  He  was 
quiet  of  speech,  always  smiling,  and  as  soft 
and  noiseless  as  the  animal  called  the  snake. 
He  had  a  narrow,  hanging  lip,  small  nose, 
large  ears,  and  characterless,  protruding  eyes. 
The  squint  look  from  under  the  eye-brows, 
and  the  quick  jerk  of  the  hand  to  the  chin, 
showed  without  doubt  that  he  possessed  the 
low  cunning  too  of  that  animal  called  the  rat. 
Partly  through  my  influence,  Muir  gradually 
got  the  reputation  of  being  a  sure-thing 
grafter,  but  he  was  so  sleek  that  he  could 
always  find  some  grafter  to  work  with  him. 
Pals  with  whom  he  fell  out,  always  shortly 
afterwards  came  to  harm.  That  was  the  case 
[248] 


Back  to  Prison. 

with  Big  Mike,  who  spat  in  Muir's  face,  when 
the  latter  visited  him  in  Sing  Sing.  When 
Muir  did  pickpocket  work,  he  never  dipped 
himself,  but  acted  as  a  stall.  This  was  another 
sure-thing  dodge.  Muir  never  did  a  bit  in 
stir  because  he  was  of  more  value  to  head- 
quarters than  a  dozen  detectives.  The  fact 
that  he  never  did  time  was  another  thing 
that  gradually  made  the  gang  suspicious  of 
him.  Therefore,  at  the  present  time  he  is  of 
comparatively  little  value  to  the  police  force, 
and  may  be  settled  before  long.     I  hope  so. 

One  of  the  meanest  things  Muir  ever  did 
was  to  a  poor  old  "dago"  grafter,  a  queer- 
maker  (counterfeiter).  The  Italian  was  put- 
ting out  unusually  good  stuff,  both  paper  and 
metal,  and  the  avaricious  Muir  thought  he 
saw  a  good  chance  to  get  a  big  bit  of  money 
from  the  dago.  He  put  up  a  plan  with  two 
Central  Office  men  to  bleed  the  counterfeiter. 
Then  he  went  to  the  dago  and  said  he  had 
got  hold  of  some  big  buyers  from  the  West 
who  would  buy  five  thousand  dollars  worth  of 
the  "  queer."  They  met  the  supposed  buyers, 
who  were  in  reality  the  two  Central  Office  men, 
at  a  little  saloon.  After  a  talk  the  detectives 
came  out  in  their  true  colors,  showed  their 
[249] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

shields,  and  demanded  one  thousand  dollars. 
The  dago  looked  at  Muir,  who  gave  him  the 
tip  to  pay  the  one  thousand  dollars.  The 
Italian,  however,  thinking  Muir  was  on  the 
level,  misunderstood  the  sign,  and  did  not  pay. 
The  outraged  detectives  took  the  Italian  to 
police  headquarters,  but  did  not  show  up  the 
queer  at  first ;  they  still  wanted  their  one 
thousand  dollars.  So  the  dago  was  remanded 
and  remanded,  getting  a  hearing  every  twenty- 
four  hours,  but  there  was  never  enough  evi- 
dence. Finally  the  poor  fellow  got  a  lawyer, 
and  then  the  Central  Office  men  gave  up  the 
game,  and  produced  the  queer  as  evidence. 
The  United  States  authorities  prosecuted  the 
case,  and  the  Italian  was  given  three  years 
and  a  half.  After  he  was  released  he  met 
Muir  on  the  East  Side,  and  tried  to  kill  him 
with  a  knife.  That  is  the  only  way  Muir  will 
ever  get  his  deserts.  A  man  like  him  very 
seldom  dies  in  state's  prison,  or  is  buried  in 
potter's  field.  He  often  becomes  a  gin-mill 
keeper  and  captain  of  his  election  district,  for 
he  understands  how  to  control  the  repeaters 
who  give  Tammany  Hall  such  large  majorities 
on  election  day  in  Manhattan. 

It  was  on  this  second  bit  in  prison,    as    I 
[250] 


Back  to  Prison. 

have  said  in  another  place,  that  the  famous 
**  fence  "  operated  in  stir.  I  knew  him  well. 
He  was  a  clever  fellow,  and  I  often  congratu- 
lated him  on  his  success  with  the  keepers ;  for 
he  was  no  stool-pigeon  and  got  his  pull  legiti' 
mately.  He  was  an  older  grafter  than  I  and 
remembered  well  Madame  Mandelbaum,  the 
Jewess,  one  of  the  best  fences,  before  my 
time,  in  New  York  City.  At  the  corner  of 
Clinton  and  Rivington  Streets  there  stood 
until  a  few  years  ago  a  small  dry  goods  and 
notions  store,  which  was  the  scene  of  transac- 
tions which  many  an  old  gun  likes  to  talk 
about.  What  plannings  of  great  robberies 
took  place  there,  in  Madame  Mandelbaum's 
store !  She  would  buy  any  kind  of  stolen 
property,  from  an  ostrich  feather  to  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  gems.  The 
common  shop-lifter  and  the  great  cracksman 
alike  did  business  at  this  famous  place.  Some 
of  the  noted  grafters  who  patronized  her  store 
were  Jimmy  Hope,  Shang  Draper,  Billy  Por- 
ter, Sheenie  Mike,  Red  Leary,  Johnnie  Irving, 
Jack  Walsh,  alias  John  the  Mick,  and  a 
brainy  planner  of  big  jobs,  English  George. 

Madame  Mandelbaum  had  two  country  resi- 
dences   in    Brooklyn    where    she    invited    her 
[251] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

friends,  the  most  famous  thieves  in  two  conti- 
nents. EngHsh  George,  who  used  to  send 
money  to  his  son,  who  was  being  educated  in 
England,  was  a  frequent  visitor,  and  used  to 
deposit  with  her  all  his  valuables.  She  had 
two  beautiful  daughters,  one  of  whom  became 
infatuated  with  George,  who  did  not  return 
her  love.  Later,  she  and  her  daughters,  after 
they  became  wealthy,  tried  to  rise  in  the 
world  and  shake  their  old  companions.  The 
daughters  were  finely  dressed  and  well-edu- 
cated, and  the  Madame  hunted  around  for 
respectable  husbands  for  them.  Once  a  bright 
reporter  wrote  a  play,  in  which  the  central 
character  was  Madame  Mandelbaum.  She 
read  about  it  in  the  newspapers  and  went,  with 
her  two  daughters,  to  see  it.  They  occupied 
a  private  box,  and  were  gorgeously  dressed. 
The  old  lady  was  very  indignant  when  she  saw 
the  woman  who  was  supposed  to  be  herself 
appear  on  the  stage.  The  actress,  badly 
dressed,  and  made  up  with  a  hooked  nose,  was 
jeered  by  the  audience.  After  the  play, 
Madame  Mandelbaum  insisted  on  seeing  the 
manager  of  the  theatre.  She  showed  him  her 
silks  and  her  costly  diamonds  and  then  said : 
**  Look  at  me.  I  am  Madame  Mandelbaum. 
[252] 


Back  to  Prison. 

Does  that  huzzy  look  anything  Hke  me  ? " 
Pointing  to  her  daughters  she  continued : 
"What  must  my  children  think  of  such  an 
impersonation  ?  Both  of  them  are  better 
dressed  and  have  more  money  and  education 
than  that  strut,  who  is  only  a  moment's  play- 
thing for  bankers  and  brokers  !  " 

In  most  ways,  of  course,  my  life  in  prison 
during  the  second  term  was  similar  to  what  it 
was  on  my  first  term.  Books  and  opium  were 
my  main  pleasures.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
them  and  for  the  thoughts  about  life  and 
about  my  fellow  convicts  which  they  led  me  to 
form,  the  monotony  of  the  prison  routine 
would  have  driven  me  mad.  My  health  was 
by  that  time  badly  shattered.  I  was  very 
nervous  and  could  seldom  sleep  without  a 
drug. 

My  moral  health  was  far  worse,  too,  than  it 
had  been  on  my  first  term.  Then  I  had  made 
strong  efforts  to  overcome  the  opium  habit, 
and  laid  plans  to  give  up  grafting.  Then  I 
had  some  decent  ambitions,  and  did  not  look 
upon  myself  as  a  confirmed  criminal  ;  whereas 
on  the  second  term,  I  had  grown  to  take  a 
hopeless  view  of  my  case.  I  began  to  feel 
that  I  could  not  reform,  no  matter  how  hard  I 
[253] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

tried.  It  seemed  to  me,  too,  that  it  was  hard- 
ly worth  while  now  to  make  an  effort,  for  I 
thought  my  health  was  worse  than  it  really 
was  and  that  I  should  die  soon,  with  no 
opportunity  to  live  the  intelligent  life  I  had 
learned  to  admire  through  my  books.  I  still 
made  good  resolutions,  and  some  effort  to 
quit  the  hop,  but  they  were  weak  in  compari- 
son with  the  efforts  I  had  made  during  my 
first  term.  More  and  more  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  belonged  in  the  under  world  for  good, 
and  that  I  might  as  well  go  through  it  to  the 
end.  Stealing  was  my  profession.  It  was  all 
I  knew  how  to  do,  and  I  didn't  believe  that 
anybody  was  interested  enough  in  me  to  teach 
me  anything  else.  On  the  other  hand,  what 
I  had  learned  on  the  Rocky  Path  would  never 
leave  me.  I  was  sure  of  my  knowledge  of  the 
technique  of  graft,  and  I  knew  that  a  sucker 
was  born  every  minute. 


[254] 


CHAPTER  XII. 

On  the  Outside  Again. 

My  time  on  the  second  bit  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  I  was  eager  to  get  out,  of  course,  but 
I  knew  way  down  in  my  mind,  that  it  would  be 
only  to  graft  again.  I  made  a  resolution  that 
I  would  regain  my  health  and  gather  a  little 
fall-money  before  I  started  in  hard  again  on 
the  Rocky  Path. 

On  the  day  of  my  release.  Warden  Sage 
called  me  to  his  office  and  talked  to  me  like  a 
friend.  He  did  not  know  that  I  was  a  second 
timer,  or  he  might  not  have  been  so  kind  to 
me.  He  was  a  humane  man,  and  in  spite  of 
his  belief  in  the  stool-pigeon  system,  he  intro- 
duced good  things  into  Sing  Sing.  He 
improved  the  condition  of  the  cells  and  we 
were  not  confined  there  so  much  as  we  had 
been  before  he  came.  On  my  first  term  many 
a  man  staid  for  days  in  his  cell  without  ever 
going  out ;  one  man  was  confined  twenty- 
eight  days  on  bread  and  water.  But  under  Mr. 
Sage  punishments  were  not  so  severe.  He 
[255] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

even  used  to  send  delicacies  to  men  chained 
up  in  the  CathoHc  Chapel. 

I  should  like  to  say  a  good  word  for  Head 
Keeper  Connoughton,  too.  He  was  not  gen- 
erally liked,  for  he  was  a  strict  disciplinarian, 
but  I  think  he  was  one  of  the  best  keepers  in 
the  country.  He  was  stern,  but  not  brutal, 
and  when  a  convict  was  sick,  Mr.  Connough- 
ton was  very  kind.  He  was  not  deceived  by 
the  fake  lunatics,  and  used  to  say  :  *'  If  you  go 
to  the  mad-house,  you  are  liable  to  become 
worse.  If  you  are  all  right  in  the  morning  I 
will  give  you  a  job  out  in  the  air."  Although 
Mr.  Connoughton  had  had  little  schooling  he 
was  an  intelligent  man. 

I  believe  the  best  thing  the  community  can 
do  to  reform  criminals  is  to  have  a  more  intel- 
ligent class  of  keepers.  As  a  rule  they  are  ignor- 
ant, brutal  and  stupid,  under-paid  and  inef- 
ficient; yet  what  is  more  important  for  the 
State's  welfare  than  an  intelligent  treatment  of 
convicts  ?  Short  terms,  too,  are  better  than  long 
ones,  for  when  the  criminal  is  broken  down  in 
health  and  made  fearful,  suspicious  and  revenge- 
ful, what  can  you  expect  from  him?  How- 
ever, in  the  mood  I  was  in  at  the  end  of  my 
second  term,  I  did  not  believe  that  anything 
[256] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

was  any  good  as  a  preventive  of  crime.  I 
knew  that  when  I  got  on  the  outside  I 
wouldn't  think  of  what  might  happen  to  me. 
I  knew  that  I  couldn't  or  wouldn't  carry  a  hod. 
What  ambition  I  had  left  was  to  become  a 
more  successful  crook  than  I  had  ever  been 
before. 

Warden  Sage  gave  me  some  good  advice 
and  then  I  left  Sing  Sing  for  New  York.  I 
did  not  get  the  pleasure  from  going  out  again 
that  had  been  so  keen  after  my  first  bit.  My 
eye-sight  was  failing  now,  and  I  was  sick  and 
dull.  My  only  thought  was  to  get  back  to  my 
old  haunts,  and  I  drank  several  large  glasses 
of  whiskey  at  Sing  Sing  town,  to  help  me  on 
my  way.  I  intended  to  go  straight  home,  as  I 
felt  very  ill,  to  my  father  and  mother,  but  I 
didn't  see  them  for  several  days  after  my 
return  to  New  York.  The  first  thing  I  did  in 
the  city  was  to  deliver  some  messages  from 
my  fellow  convicts  to  their  relatives.  My 
third  visit  for  that  purpose  was  to  the  home 
of  a  fine  young  fellow  I  knew  in  stir.  It  was 
a  large  family  and  included  a  married  sister 
and  her  children.  They  were  glad  to  hear 
from  Bobby,  and  I  talked  to  them  for  some 
time  about  him,  when  the  husband  of  the  mar- 
[257] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

ried  sister  came  home,  and  began  to  quarrel 
with  his  wife.  He  accused  her  of  having 
strange  men  in  the  house,  meaning  me. 
The  younger  brother  and  the  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily got  back  at  the  brother-in-law  and  gave 
him  better  than  they  got.  The  little  brother 
fired  a  lamp  at  him,  and  he  yelled  "murder". 
The  police  surrounded  the  house  and  took  us 
all  to  the  station-house  in  the  patrol  wagon. 
And  so  I  spent  the  first  night  after  my  return 
in  confinement.  It  seemed  natural,  however. 
In  the  morning  we  were  taken  before  the 
magistrate,  and  the  mother  and  sister  testified 
that  I  had  taken  them  a  message  from  their 
boy,  and  had  committed  no  offense.  The 
brother-in-law  blurted  out  that  he  had  married 
into  a  family  of  thieves,  and  that  I  had  just 
returned  from  Sing  Sing.  I  was  discharged, 
but  fined  five  dollars.  Blessed  are  the  peace- 
makers,— but  not  in  my  case ! 

I  passed  the  next  day  looking  for  old  girls 
and  pals,  but  I  found  few  of  them.  Many 
were  dead  and  others  were  in  stir  or  had  sunk 
so  far  down  into  the  under  world  that  even  I 
could  not  find  them.  I  was  only  about  thirty- 
two  years  old,  but  I  had  already  a  long 
acquaintance  with  the  past.  Like  all  grafters 
[258] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

I  had  lived  rapidly,  crowding,  while  at  liberty, 
several  days  into  one.  When  I  got  back 
from  my  second  bit  the  greater  part  of  my  life 
seemed  to  be  made  up  of  memories  of  other 
days.  Some  of  the  old  pals  I  did  meet  again 
had  squared  it,  others  were  "dead"  (out  of  the 
game)  and  some  had  degenerated  into  mere 
bums. 

There  are  several  different  classes  of  "  dead 
ones " : 

I.  The  man  who  has  lost  his  nerve.  He 
generally  becomes  a  whiskey  fiend.  If  he 
becomes  hopelessly  a  soak  the  better  class  of 
guns  shun  him,  for  he  is  no  good  to  work 
with.  He  will  not  keep  an  engagement,  or 
will  turn  up  at  the  place  of  meeting  too  late 
or  too  early.  A  grafter  must  be  exactly  on 
time.  It  is  as  bad  to  be  too  early  as  too  late, 
for  he  must  not  be  seen  hanging  around  the 
place  of  meeting.  Punctuality  is  more  of  a 
virtue  in  the  under  world  than  it  is  in  re- 
spectable society.  The  slackest  people  I  know 
to  keep  their  appointments,  are  the  honest 
ones ;  or  grafters  who  have  become  whiskey 
fiends.  These  latter  usually  wind  up  with 
rot-gut  booze  and  are  sometimes  seen  selling 
songs  on  the  Bowery. 

[259] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

2.  The  man  who  becomes  a  copper.  He 
is  known  as  a  stool-pigeon,  and  is  detested  and 
feared  by  all  grafters.  Nobody  will  go  with 
him.  Sometimes  he  becomes  a  Pinkerton 
man,  and  is  a  useful  member  of  society.  When 
he  loses  his  grip  with  the  upper  world,  he 
belongs  to  neither,  for  the  grafters  won't  look 
at  him. 

3.  The  man  who  knows  a  trade.  This 
grafter  often  "squares"  it,  is  apt  to  marry 
and  remain  honest.  His  former  pals,  who  are 
still  grafters,  treat  him  kindly,  for  they  know 
he  is  not  a  rat.  They  know,  too,  that  he  is  a 
bright  and  intelligent  man,  and  that  it  is  well 
to  keep  on  the  right  side  of  him.  Such  a  man 
has  often  educated  himself  in  stir,  and,  when 
he  squares  it,  is  apt  to  join  a  political  club,  and 
is  called  in  by  the  leader  to  help  out  in  an 
election,  for  he  possesses  some  brains.  The 
gun  is  apt  to  make  him  an  occasional  present, 
for  he  can  help  the  grafter,  in  case  of  a  fall, 
because  of  his  connection  with  the  politicians. 
This  kind  of  "dead  one"  often  keeps  his 
friends  the  grafters,  while  in  stir,  next  to  the 
news  in  the  city. 

4.  The  gun  who  is  supposed  to  square  it. 
This  grafter  has  got  a  bunch  of  money  together 

[260] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

and  sees  a  good  chance  to  open  a  gin-mill,  or 
a  Raines  Law  hotel,  or  a  gambling  joint.  He 
knows  how  to  take  care  of  the  repeaters,  and 
is  handy  about  election  time.  In  return  he 
gets  protection  for  his  illegal  business.  He  is 
a  go-between,  and  is  on  good  terms  with  cop- 
pers and  grafters.  He  supplies  the  grafter 
who  has  plenty  of  fall-money  with  bondsmen, 
makes  his  life  in  the  Tombs  easy,  and  gets  him 
a  good  job  while  in  stir.  This  man  is  supposed 
to  be  "  dead,"  but  he  is  really  very  much 
alive.  Often  a  copper  comes  to  him  and  asks 
for  the  whereabouts  of  some  grafter  or  other. 
He  will  reply,  perhaps :  "  I  hear  he  is  in  Eu- 
rope, or  in  the  West."  The  copper  looks  wise 
and  imagines  he  is  clever.  The  "  dead  "  one 
sneers,  and,  like  a  wise  man,  laughs  in  his 
sleeve ;  for  he  is  generally  in  communication 
with  the  man  looked  for. 

5.  The  sure-thing  grafter.  He  is  a  man 
who  continues  to  steal,  but  wants  above  every- 
thing to  keep  out  of  stir,  where  he  has  spent 
many  years.  So  he  goes  back  to  the  petty 
pilfering  he  did  as  a  boy.  General  Brace  and 
the  Professor  belonged  to  this  class  of  "  dead 
ones."  The  second  night  I  spent  on  the 
Bowery  after  my  return  from  my  second  bit  I 
[261] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

met  Laudanum  Joe,  who  is  another  good 
example  of  this  kind  of  "  dead  one."  At  one 
time  he  made  thousands  of  dollars,  but  now 
he  is  discouraged  and  nervous.  He  looked 
bad  (poorly  dressed)  but  was  glad  to  see 
me. 

**  How  is  graft  ?  "  he  asked. 

•'  I  have  left  the  Rocky  Path,"  I  replied, 
thinking  I  would  throw  a  few  "  cons  "  into  him. 
**  I  am  walking  straight.  Not  in  the  religious 
line,  either." 

He  smiled,  which  was  tantamount  to  saying 
that  I  lied. 

"  What  are  you  working  at?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  job,"  I  replied. 

"Jimmy,  is  it  true,  that  you  are  pipes 
(crazy)  ?  I  heard  you  got  buggy  (crazy)  in 
your  last  bit." 

"Joe,"  I  replied,  "you  know  I  was  never 
bothered  above  the  ears." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  carry  the  hod,"  he 
said,  you  might  as  well  go  to  the  pipe-house, 
and  let  them  cure  you.  Have  you  given  up 
smoking,  too  ? "  he  continued. 

He  meant  the  hop.     I   conned  him  again 
and  said  :  "  Yes."     He  showed  the  old  pecu- 
liar, familiar  grin,  and  said  : 
[262] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

"  Say,  I  have  no  coin.  Take  me  with  you 
and  give  me  a  smoke." 

I  tried  to  convince  him  that  there  was  noth- 
ing in  it,  but  he  was  a  doubter. 

"What  diVQ you  doing,  Joe?"  I  asked. 

"  O,  just  getting  a  few  shilHngs,  he  replied, 
meaning  that  he  was  grafting." 

"Why  don't  you  give  up  the  booze?"  I 
asked. 

I  had  made  a  break,  for  he  said,  quickly : 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  don't  wear  a  Piccadilly 
collar?" 

All  grafters  of  any  original  calibre  are 
super-sensitive,  to  a  point  very  near  insanity. 
Laudanum  Joe  thought  I  had  reference  to  his 
dress,  which  was  very  bum. 

"Joe,"  I  said,  "  I  never  judge  a  man  by  his 
clothes,  especially  one  that  I  know." 

"Jimmy,"  he  said,  "  the  truth  is  I  can't  stand 
another  long  bit  in  stir.  I  do  a  little  petty 
pilfering  that  satisfies  my  wants — a  cup  of  tea, 
plenty  of  booze,  and  a  little  hop.  If  I  fall  I 
only  go  to  the  workhouse  for  a  couple  of 
months.  The  screws  know  I  have  seen  better 
days  and  I  can  get  a  graft  and  my  booze  while 
there.  If  I  aint  as  prosperous  as  I  was  once, 
why  not  dream  I'm  a  millionaire  ?  " 
[263] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

Some  grafters  who  have  been  prosperous  at 
one  time  fall  even  lower  than  Laudanum  Joe. 
When  they  get  fear  knocked  into  them  and 
can't  do  without  whiskey  they  sink  lower  and 
lower.  Hungry  Bob  is  another  example.  I 
grafted  with  him  as  a  boy,  but  when  I  met 
him  on  the  Bowery  after  my  second  bit  I  hardly 
knew  him,  and  at  first  he  failed  to  recognize 
me  entirely.  I  got  him  into  a  gin-mill,  how- 
ever, and  he  told  how  badly  treated  he  had 
been  just  before  we  met.  He  had  gone  into 
a  saloon  kept  by  an  old  pal  of  his  who  had 
risen  in  the  world,  and  asked  him  for  fifteen 
cents  to  buy  a  bed  in  a  lodging-house.  "  Go 
long,  you  pan-handler  (beggar),"  said  his  old 
friend.  Poor  Bob  was  badly  cut  up  about  it, 
and  talked  about  ingratitude  for  a  long  time. 
But  he  had  his  lodging  money,  for  a  safe- 
cracker who  knew  Hungry  Bob  when  he  was 
one  of  the  gayest  grafters  in  town,  happened 
to  be  in  the  saloon,  and  he  gave  the  "  bum  " 
fifteen  cents  for  old  times  sake. 

"  How  is  it.  Bob,"  I  said  to  him,  "  that  you 
are  not  so  good  as  you  were  ?  " 

"  You  want  to  know  what  put  me  on  the 
bum  ? "  he  answered.  "  Well,  it's  this  way. 
I  can't  trust  nobody,  and  I  have  to  graft  alone. 
[264] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

That's  one  thing.  Then,  too,  I  like  the  booze 
too  much,  and  when  I'm  sitting  down  I  can't 
get  up  and  go  out  and  hustle  the  way  I  used 
to." 

Hungry  Bob  and  I  were  sitting  in  a  resort 
for  sailors  and  hard-luck  grafters  in  the  lower 
Bowery,  when  a  Sheenie  I  knew  came  in. 

"  Hello,  Jim,"  he  said. 

"  How's  graft,  Mike  ?  "  I  replied. 

*'  Don't  mention  it." 

"What  makes  you  look  so  glum  ?" 

"  I'm  only  after  being  turned  out  of  police 
court  this  morning." 

"What  was  the  rap,  Mike?  " 

"  I'm  looking  too  respectable.  They  asked 
me  where  I  got  the  clothes.  I  told  them  I 
was  working,  which  was  true.  I  have  been  a 
waiter  for  three  months.  The  flymen  took  me 
to  headquarters.  I  was  gathered  in  to  make 
a  reputation  for  those  two  shoo-flies.  When- 
ever I  square  it  and  go  to  work  I  am  nailed 
regularly,  because  my  mug  is  in  the  Hall  of 
Fame.  When  I  am  arrested,  I  lose  my  job 
every  time.  Nobody  knows  you  now,  Jim. 
You  could  tear  the  town  open." 

I  made  a  mental  resolution  to  follow  Mike's 
advice  very  soon — as  soon  as  my  health  was  a 
[  265  ] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

little  better.  Just  then  Jack,  a  boyhood  pal  of 
mine,  who  knew  the  old  girls,  Sheenie  Annie 
and  the  rest,  came  in.  I  was  mighty  glad  to  see 
him,  and  said  so  to  him. 

**  I  guess  you've  got  the  advantage  of  me, 
bloke,"  was  his  reply. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Jimmy  the  Kid,  ten 
years  ago,  in  the  sixth  ?  "  I  jogged  his  mem- 
ory with  the  names  of  a  few  pals  of  years  ago, 
and  when  he  got  next,  he  said  : 

"I  wouldn't  have  known  you,  Jim.  I 
thought  you  were  dead  many  years  ago  in 
stir.  I  heard  it  time  and  time  again.  I 
thought  you  were  past  and  gone." 

After  a  short  talk,  I  said  : 

"  Where's  Sheenie  Annie  ?" 

"  Dead,"  he  replied. 

"  Mamie  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Dead,"  he  replied. 

"Lucy?" 

"  In  stir." 

"  Swedish  Emmy  ?  " 

"  She's  married." 

"  Any  good  Molls  now  ?  I'm  only  after 
getting  back  from  stir  and  am  not  next,"  I  said. 

"  T'aint  like  old  times,  Jim,"  he  said.  "  The 
Molls  won't  steal  now.  They  aint  got  brains 
[266] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

enough.  They  are  not  innocent.  They  are 
ignorant.  All  they  know  how  to  do  is  the 
badger." 

I  went  with  Jack  to  his  house,  where  he  had 
an  opium  layout.  There  we  found  several 
girls  and  grafters,  some  smoking  hop,  some 
with  the  subtle  cigarette  between  their  lips. 
I  was  introduced  to  an  English  grafter,  named 
Harry,  He  said  he  was  bloomin'  glad  to  see 
me.  He  was  just  back  from  the  West,  he 
said,  but  I  thought  it  was  the  pen.  He  began 
to  abuse  the  States,  and  I  said : 

"  You  duffer,  did  you  ever  see  such  pretty 
girls  as  here  ?  Did  you  ever  wear  a  collar  and 
tie  in  the  old  country  ?  " 

He   grew   indignant   and   shouted:    **'01y 

Cobblestones  !     In  this  country  I  have 

two  hundred  bucks  (dollars)  saved  up  every 
time,  but  I  never  spend  a  cent  of  it.  'Ow  to 
'Ell  am  I  better  off  here?  I'm  only  stealin' 
for  certain  mugs  (policemen)  and  fer  those 
'igher  up,  so  they  can  buy  real  estate.  They 
enjoy  their  life  in  this  country  and  Europe  off 
my  'ard  earned  money  and  the  likes  of  me. 
They  die  as  respected  citizens.  I  die  in  the 
work'us  as  an  outcast.  Don't  be  prating  about 
your country !  " 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

As  soon  as  I  had  picked  out  a  good  mob  to 
join  I  began  to  graft  again.  Two  of  my  new 
pals  were  safe-blowers,  and  we  did  that  graft, 
and  day-work,  as  well  as  the  old  reliable  dip- 
ping. But  I  wasn't  much  at  the  graft  during 
the  seven  months  I  remained  on  the  outside. 
My  health  continued  bad,  and  I  did  not  feel 
like  "jumping  out"  so  much  as  I  had  done 
formerly.  I  did  not  graft  except  when  my 
funds  were  very  low,  and  so,  of  course,  con- 
trary to  my  plans,  I  saved  no  fall-money.  I 
had  a  girl,  an  opium  lay-out  and  a  furnished 
room,  where  I  used  to  stay  most  of  the  time, 
smoking  with  pals,  who,  like  myself,  had  had 
the  keen  edge  of  their  ambition  taken  off.  I 
had  a  strange  longing  for  music  at  that  time  ; 
I  suppose  because  my  nerves  were  weaker 
than  they  used  to  be.  I  kept  a  number  of 
musical  instruments  in  my  room,  and  used  to 
sing  and  dance  to  amuse  my  visitors. 

During  these  seven  months  that  I  spent 
mainly  in  my  room,  I  used  to  reflect  and  philos- 
ophize a  lot,  partly  under  the  influence  of 
opium.  I  would  moralize  to  my  girl  or  to  a 
friend,  or  commune  with  my  own  thoughts. 
I  often  got  in  a  state  of  mind  where  every- 
thing seemed  a  joke  to  me.  I  often  thought 
[268] 


On  the  Outside  Again, 

of  myself  as  a  spectator  watching  the  play  of 
life.  I  observed  my  visitors  and  their  charac- 
teristics and  after  they  had  left  for  the  even- 
ing loved  to  size  them  up  in  words  for  Lizzie. 

My  eyes  were  so  bad  that  I  did  not  read 
much,  but  I  took  it  out  in  epigrams  and  wise 
sayings.  I  will  give  a  few  specimens  of  the 
kind  of  philosophy  I  indulged  in. 

"  You  always  ought  to  end  a  speech  with  a 
sneer  or  a  laconic  remark.  It  is  food  for 
thought.  The  listener  will  pause  and  re- 
flect." 

"  It  is  not  what  you  make,  but  what  you 
save,  that  counts.  It  isn't  the  big  cracksman 
who  gets  along.  It  is  the  unknown  dip  who 
saves  his  earnings." 

"  To  go  to  Germany  to  learn  the  language 
is  as  bad  as  being  in  stir  for  ten  years." 

"Jump  out  and  be  a  man  and  don't  join  the 
Salvation  Army." 

**  Always  say  to  the  dip  who  says  he  wants 
to  square  it ;  Well,  what's  your  other  graft  ? " 

"  When  a  con  gets  home  he  is  apt  to  find 
his  sweetheart  married,  and  a  *  Madonna  of 
the  wash  tubs.' " 

"He  made  good  money  and  was  a  swell 
grafter,  but  he  got  stuck  on  a  Tommy  that 
[269] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

absorbed  his  attention,  and  then  he  lost  his 
punctuality  and  went  down  and  out. " 

*'  Do  a  criminal  a  bodily  injury  and  he  may 
forget.  Wound  his  feelings  and  he  will  never 
forgive. " 

**  Most  persons  have  seen  a  cow  or  a  bull 
with  a  board  put  around  its  head  in  such  a 
way  that  the  animal  can  see  nothing.  It  is  a 
mode  of  punishment.  Soon  the  poor  beast 
will  go  mad,  if  the  board  is  not  removed. 
What  chance  has  the  convict,  confined  in  a 
dark  cell  for  years,  to  keep  his  senses  ?  He 
suffers  from  astigmatism  of  the  mind.  " 

*'  I  am  as  much  entitled  to  an  opinion  as  any 
other  quack  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"General  Grant  is  one  of  my  heroes.  He 
was  a  boy  at  fifteen.  He  was  a  boy  when  he 
died.  A  boy  is  loyalty  personified.  General 
Grant  had  been  given  a  task  to  do,  and  like  a 
boy,  he  did  it.  He  was  one  of  our  greatest 
men,  and  belongs  with  Tom  Paine,  Benjamin 
Franklin  and  Robert  Ingersoll." 

**  Why  don't  we  like  the  books  we  liked 
when  we  were  boys  ?  It  is  not  because  our 
judgment  is  better,  but  because  we  have  a 
dream  of  our  own  now,  and  want  authors  to 
dream  along  the  same  lines." 
[270] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

"  The  only  gun  with  principles  is  the  minor 
grafter." 

"The  weakest  man  in  the  universe  is  he 
who  falls  from  a  good  position  and  respecta- 
ble society  into  the  world  of  graft.  Forgers 
and  defaulters  are  generally  of  this  class.  A 
professional  gun,  who  has  been  a  thief  all  his 
life,  is  entitled  to  more  respect." 

"  In  writing  a  book  on  crime,  one  ought  to 
have  in  mind  to  give  the  public  a  truthful 
account  of  a  thief's  life,  his  crimes,  habits, 
thoughts,  emotions,  vices  and  virtues,  and  how 
he  lives  in  prison  and  out.  I  believe  this 
ought  to  be  done,  and  the  man  who  does  it 
well  must  season  his  writings  with  pathos, 
humor,  sarcasm,  tragedy,  and  thus  give  the 
real  life  of  the  grafter." 

"Sympathy  with  a  grafter  who  is  trying  to 
square  it  is  a  tonic  to  his  better  self." 

"  The  other  day  I  was  with  a  reporter  and  a 
society  lady  who  were  seeing  the  town.  The 
lady  asked  me  how  I  would  get  her  diamond 
pin.  It  was  fastened  in  such  a  way  that  to 
get  it,  strong  arm  work  would  be  necessary.  I 
explained  how  I  would  "put  the  mug  on  her  " 
while  my  husky  pal  went  through  her.  *  But,' 
she  said,  'that  would  hurt  me.'  As  if  the 
[271  ] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

grafters  cared  !  What  a  selfish  lady  to  be 
always  thinking  of  herself ! " 

"  Life  is  the  basis  of  philosophy.  Philoso- 
phy is  an  emanation  from  our  daily  routine. 
After  a  convict  has  paced  his  cell  a  few  thou- 
sand times  he  sometimes  has  an  idea.  Philoso- 
phy results  from  life  put  through  a  mental 
process,  just  as  opium,  when  subjected  to  a 
chemical  experiment,  produces  laudanum. 
Why,  therefore,  is  not  life  far  stronger  than  a 
narcotic  ?  " 

"  I  believe  in  platonic  love,  for  it  has  been 
in  my  own  life.  A  woman  always  wants  love, 
whether  she  is  eighteen  or  eighty — real  love. 
Many  is  the  time  I  have  seen  the  wistful  look 
in  some  woman's  eye  when  she  saw  that  it  was 
only  good  fellowship  or  desire  on  my  part." 

"In  this  age  of  commerce  there  is  only  one 
true  friendship,  the  kind  that  comes  through 
business." 

"  An  old  adage  has  it  that  all  things  come 
to  him  who  waits.  Yes  :  poverty,  old  age  and 
death.  The  successful  man  is  he  who  goes 
and  gets  it." 

"If  thy  brother  assaults  you,  do  not  weep, 
nor  pray  for  him,  nor  turn  the  other  cheek, 
but  assail  him  with  the  full  strength  of  your 
[272] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

muscles,  for  man  at  his  best  is  not   lovable, 
nor  at  his  worst,  detestable." 

"  There  is  more  to  be  got  in  Germany,  judg- 
ing from  what  Dutch  Lonzo  used  to  say,  than 
in  England  or  America,  only  the  Dutchmen 
are  too  thick-headed  to  find  it  out.  A  first 
class  gun  in  Germany  would  be  ranked  as  a 
ninth-rater  here." 

"  Grafters  are  like  the  rest  of  the  world  in 
this :  they  always  attribute  bad  motives  to  a 
kind  act." 

"  From  flim-flam  (returning  short  change) 
to  burglary  is  but  a  step,  provided  one  has 
the  nerve." 

"  Why  would  a  woman  take  to  him  (a  sober, 
respectable  man  but  lacking  in  temperament) 
unless  she  wanted  a  good  home  ?  " 

"  If  there  is  anything  detestable,  it  is  a 
grafter  who  will  steal  an  overcoat  in  the  win- 
ter time." 

*'  *  Look  for  the  woman.'  A  fly-cop  gets 
many  a  tip  from  some  tid-bit  in  whom  a  graf- 
ter has  reposed  confidence." 

I  did  not  do,  as  I  have  said,  any  more  graft- 
ing than  was  necessary  during  these  seven 
months  of  liberty  ;  but  I  observed  continually, 

[  273  ] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

living  in  an  opium  dream,  and  my  pals  were 
more  and  more  amusing  to  me.  When  I 
thought  about  myself  and  my  superior  intelli- 
gence, I  was  sad,  but  I  thought  about  myself 
as  little  as  possible.  I  preferred  to  let  my 
thoughts  dwell  on  others,  who  I  saw  were  a 
a  fine  line  of  cranks  and  rogues. 

Somewhere  in  the  eighties,  before  I  went 
to  stir,  there  was  a  synagogue  at  what  is  now 
loi  Hester  Street.  The  synagogue  was  on 
the  first  floor,  and  on  the  ground  floor  was 
a  gin-mill,  run  by  an  ex-Central  Office  man. 
Many  pickpockets  used  to  hang  out  there,  and 
they  wanted  to  drive  the  Jews  out  of  the  first 
floor,  so  that  they  could  lay  out  a  faro  game 
there.  So  they  swore  and  carried  on  most 
horribly  on  Saturdays,  when  the  rabbi  was 
preaching,  and  finally  got  possession  of  the 
premises.  Only  a  block  away  from  this  old 
building  was  a  famous  place  for  dips  to  get 
"  books  ",  in  the  old  days.  Near  by  was  Rid- 
ley's dry-goods  store,  in  which  there  were  some 
cash-girls  who  used  to  tip  us  off  to  who  had 
the  books,  and  were  up  to  the  graft  themselves. 
They  would  yell  "  cash  "  and  bump  up  against 
the  sucker,  while  we  went  through  him.  The 
Jews  were  few  in  those  days,  and  the  Irish 
[274] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

were  in  the  majority.  On  the  corner  of  Allen 
and  Hester  Streets  stood  the  saloon  of  a 
well-known  politician.  Now  a  Jew  has  a  shop 
there.  Who  would  think  that  an  Isaacs 
would  supersede  a  Finnigan  ? 

At  the  gin-mill  on  Hester  Street,  I  used  to 
know  a  boy  dip  named  Buck.  When  I  got 
back  from  my  second  bit  I  found  he  had 
developed  into  a  box-man,  and  had  a  peculiar 
disposition,  which  exists  outside,  as  well  as 
inside,  Graftdom.  He  had  one  thousand  eight 
hundred  dollars  in  the  bank,  and  a  fine  red 
front  (gold  watch  and  chain) ,  but  he  was  not 
a  good  fellow.  He  used  to  invite  three  or 
four  guns  to  have  a  drink,  and  would  order 
Hennessy's  brandy,  which  cost  twenty  cents  a 
glass.  After  we  had  had  our  drinks  he  would 
search  himself  and  only  find  perhaps  twenty 
cents  in  his  clothes.  He  got  into  me  several 
times  before  I  **  blew  ".  One  time,  after  he  had 
ordered  drinks,  he  began  the  old  game,  said 
he  thought  he  had  eighteen  dollars  with  him, 
and  must  have  been  touched.  Then  he  took 
out  his  gold  watch  and  chain  and  threw  it  on 
the  bar.  But  who  would  take  it?  I  went 
down,  of  course,  and  paid  for  the  drinks. 
When  we  went  out  together,  he  grinned,  and 
[275] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

said  to  me :  *'  I  pity  you.  You  will  never 
have  a  bank  account,  my  boy." 

The  next  time  Buck  threw  down  his  watch 
and  said  he  would  pay  in  the  morning,  I 
thought  it  was  dirt,  for  I  knew  he  had  fifty 
dollars  on  him.  So  I  said  to  the  bartender  : 
"  Take  it  and  hock  it,  and  get  what  he  owes 
you.  This  chump  has  been  working  it  all  up 
and  down  the  line.  I  won't  be  touched  by  the 
d grafter  any  more." 

Buck  was  ready  witted  and  turning  to  the 
bartender,  said :  *'  My  friend  here  is  learning 
how  to  play  poker  and  has  just  lost  eighteen 
dollars.  He  is  a  dead  sore  loser  and  is 
rattled." 

We  went  out  with  the  watch,  without  pay- 
ing for  our  drinks,  and  he  said  to  me:  "Jim, 
I  don't  believe  in  paying  a  gin-mill  keeper. 
If  the  powers  that  be  were  for  the  people 
instead  of  for  themselves  they  would  have 
such  drinkables  free  on  every  corner  in  old 
New  York."  The  next  time  Buck  asked  me 
to  have  a  drink  I  told  him  to  go  to  a  warm 
place  in  the  next  world.  Buck  was  good  to 
his  family.  He  was  married  and  had  a  couple 
of  brats. 

Many  a  man  educates  himself  in  stir,  as  was 
[  276  J 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

my  case.  Jimmy,  whom  I  ran  up  against  one 
day  on  the  street,  is  a  good  example.  He 
had  squared  it  and  is  still  on  the  level.  When 
I  saw  him,  after  my  second  bit,  he  was  making 
forty  dollars  a  week  as  an  electrical  engineer  ; 
and  every  bit  of  the  necessary  education  he 
got  in  prison.  At  one  time  he  was  an  un- 
usually desperate  grafter  ;  and  entirely  ignor- 
ant of  everything,  except  the  technique  of 
theft.  Many  years  ago  he  robbed  a  jewelry 
store  and  was  sent  to  Blackwell's  Island  for 
two  years.  The  night  of  the  day  he  was 
released  he  burglarized  the  same  store  and 
assaulted  the  proprietor.  He  was  arrested 
with  the  goods  on  him  and  brought  to  General 
Sessions  before  Recorder  Smythe,  who  had 
sentenced  him  before.  He  got  ten  years  at 
Sing  Sing  and  Auburn,  and  for  a  while  he  was 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  and  desperate  of 
convicts,  and  made  several  attempts  to  escape. 
But  one  day  a  book  on  electricity  fell  into  his 
hands,  and  from  that  time  on  he  was  a  hard 
student.  When  he  was  released  from  stir  he 
got  a  job  in  a  large  electrical  plant  up  the 
State,  and  worked  for  a  while,  when  he  was 
tipped  off  by  a  country  grafter  who  had  known 
him  in  stir.  He  lost  his  job,  and  went  to  New 
[277] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

York,  where  he  met  me,  who  was  home  after 
my  first  term.  I  gave  him  the  welcome  hand, 
and,  after  he  had  told  me  his  story,  I  said : 
"  Well,  there  is  plenty  of  money  in  town. 
Jump  out  with  us."  He  grafted  with  me  and 
my  mob  for  a  while,  but  got  stuck  on  a 
Tommy,  so  that  we  could  not  depend  on  him 
to  keep  his  appointments,  and  we  dropped 
him.  After  that  he  did  some  strong  arm  work 
with  a  couple  of  gorillas  and  fell  again  for  five 
years.  When  he  returned  from  stir  he  got 
his  present  position  as  electrical  engineer. 
He  had  it  when  I  met  him  after  my  second 
bit  and  he  has  it  to-day.  I  am  sure  he  is  on 
the  level  and  will  be  so  as  long  as  he  holds 
his  job. 

About  this  time  I  was  introduced  to  a  pecu- 
liar character  in  the  shape  of  a  few  yards  of 
calico.  It  was  at  Carey's  place  on  Bleecker 
Street  that  I  first  saw  this  good-looking  youth 
of  nineteen,  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion. 
His  graft  was  to  masquerade  as  a  young  girl, 
and  for  a  long  time  Short-Haired  Liz,  as  we 
called  him,  was  very  successful.  He  sought 
employment  as  maid  in  well-to-do  families  and 
then  made  away  with  the  valuables.  One  day 
he  was  nailed,  with  twenty  charges  against 
[278] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

him.  He  was  convicted  on  the  testimony  of 
a  chamber-maid,  with  whom,  in  his  character 
of   lady's    maid,    he   had    had   a   lark.       Mr. 

R ,   who   was   still    influential,    did   his 

best  for  him,  for  his  fall-money  was  big,  and 
he  only  got  a  light  sentence. 

I  heard  one  day  that  an  old  pal  of  mine, 
Dannie,  had  just  been  hanged.  It  gave  me  a 
shock,  for  I  had  often  grafted  with  him  when 
we  were  kids.  As  there  were  no  orchards  on 
the  streets  of  the  east  side,  Dannie  and  I  used 
to  go  to  the  improvised  gardens  that  lined  the 
side-walks  outside  of  the  green  grocers'  shops, 
and  make  away  with  strawberries,  apples,  and 
other  fruits.  By  nature  I  suppose  boys  are 
no  more  bothered  with  consciences  than  are 
police  officials.  Dannie  rose  rapidly  in  the 
world  of  graft  and  became  very  dangerous  to 
society.  As  a  grafter  he  had  one  great  fault. 
He  had  a  very  quick  temper.  He  was  sensi- 
tive, and  lacking  in  self-control,  but  he  was 
one  of  the  cleverest  guns  that  ever  came  from 
the  Sixth  Ward,  a  place  noted  for  good  graft- 
ers of  both  sexes.  He  married  a  respectable 
girl  and  had  a  nice  home,  for  he  had  enough 
money  to  keep  the  police  from  bothering  him. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  his  bad  temper,  he 
[279] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

might  be  grafting  yet.  He  would  shoot  at  a 
moment's  notice,  and  the  toughest  of  the  hard 
element  were  afraid  of  him.  One  time  he 
had  it  in  for  an  old  pal  of  his  named  Paddy. 
For  a  while  Paddy  kept  away  from  the  saloon 
on  Pell  Street  where  Dannie  hung  out,  but 
Paddy,  too,  had  nerve,  and  one  day  he  turned 
up  at  his  old  resort,  the  Drum,  as  it  was  called. 
He  saw  Dannie  and  fired  a  cannister  at  him. 
Dannie  hovered  between  life  and  death  for 
months,  and  had  four  operations  performed  on 
him  without  anaesthetics.  After  he  got  well 
Dannie  grafted  on  the  Albany  boats.  One 
night  he  and  his  pals  tried  to  get  a  Moll's 
leather,  but  some  Western  guns  who  were  on 
the  boat  were  looking  for  provender  them- 
selves and  nicked  the  Moll.  Dannie  accused 
them  of  taking  his  property,  and,  as  they 
would  not  give  up,  pulled  his  pistol.  One  of 
the  Western  guns  jumped  overboard,  and  the 
others  gave  up  the  stuff.  Dannie  was  right, 
for  that  boat  belonged  to  him  and  his  mob. 

A  few  months  after  that  event  Dannie  shot 
a  mug,  who  had  called  him  a  rat,  and  went  to 
San  Antonio,  Texas,  where  he  secured  a  posi- 
tion as  bartender.  One  day  a  well-known 
gambler  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 
[280] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

ten  time  killer  began  to  shoot  around  in  the 
saloon  for  fun.  Dannie  joined  in  the  game, 
shot  the  gambler  twice,  and  beat  the  latter's 
two  pals  into  insensibility.  A  few  months 
afterwards  he  came  to  New  York  with  twenty- 
seven  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket ;  and  he 
enjoyed  himself,  for  it  is  only  the  New  York 
City  born  who  love  the  town.  But  he  had 
better  have  stayed  away,  for  in  New  York  he 
met  his  mortal  enemy,  Splitty,  who  had  more 
brains  than  Dannie,  and  was  running  a  "short 
while  house"  in  the  famous  gas  house  block 
in  Hester  Street.  One  night  Dannie  was  on 
a  drunk,  spending  his  twenty-seven  hundred 
dollars,  and  riding  around  in  a  carriage  with 
two  girls.  Beeze,  one  of  the  Molls,  proposed 
to  go  around  to  Splitty's.  They  went,  and 
Beeze  and  the  other  girl  were  admitted,  but 
Dannie  was  shut  out.  He  fired  three  shots 
through  the  door.  One  took  effect  in  Beeze's 
breast  fatally,  and  Dannie  was  arrested. 

While  in  Tombs  waiting  trial  he  was  well 
treated  by  the  warden,  who  was  leader  of  the 
Sixth  Ward,  and  who  used  to  permit  Dannie's 
wife  to  visit  him  ever}'-  night.  At  the  same 
time  Dannie  became  the  victim  of  one  of  the 
worst  cases  of  treachery  I  ever  heard  of.  An 
[281] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

old  pal  of  his,  George,  released  from  Sing 
Sing,  went  to  visit  him  in  the  Tombs.  Dan- 
nie advised  George  not  to  graft  again  until  he 
got  his  health  back,  suggesting  that  mean- 
while he  eat  his  meals  at  his  (Dannie's) 
mother's  house.  The  old  lady  had  saved  up 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  which  she 
intended  to  use  to  secure  a  new  trial  for  her 
son.  George  heard  of  the  money  and  put  up 
a  scheme  to  get  it.  He  told  the  old  woman 
that  Dannie  was  going  to  escape  from  the 
Tombs  that  night  and  that  he  had  sent  word 
to  his  mother  to  give  him  (George)  the 
money.  The  villain  then  took  the  money  and 
skipped  the  city,  thus  completing  the  dirtiest 
piece  of  work  I  ever  heard  of.  '*  Good 
Heavens  ! "  said  Dannie,  when  he  heard  of  it. 
*'  A  study  in  black  ! "  Dannie,  poor  fellow, 
was  convicted,  and,  after  a  few  months,  hanged. 
Another  tragedy  in  Manhattan  was  the  end 

ot  Johnny  T .     I  had  been  out  only  a  short 

time  after  my  second  bit,  when  I  met  him  on 
the  Bowery.  He  was  just  back,  too,  and  com- 
plained that  all  his  old  pals  had  lost  their 
nerve.  Whenever  he  made  a  proposition  they 
seemed  to  see  twenty  years  staring  them  in 
the  face.  So  he  had  to  work  alone.  His 
[282] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

graft  was  burglary,  outside  of  New  York.  He 
lived  in  the  city,  and  the  police  gave  him  pro- 
tection for  outside  work.  He  was  married 
and  had  two  fine  boys.  One  day  a  copper, 
contrary  to  the  agreement,  tried  to  arrest  him 
for  a  touch  made  in  Mt.  Vernon.  Johnny  was 
indignant,  and  wouldn't  stand  for  a  collar 
under  the  circumstances.  He  put  four  shots 
into  the  flyman's  body.  He  was  taken  to  the 
station-house,  and  afterwards  tried  for  murder. 
The  boys  collected  a  lot  of  money  and  tried 
to  save  him,  but  he  had  the  whole  police  force 
against  him  and  in  a  few  months  he  was 
hanged. 

A  friend  of  mine,  L ,  had  a  similar  fate. 

He  was  a  prime  favorite  with  the  lasses  of 
easy  virtue,  and  was  liked  by  the  guns.  One 
night  when  I  met  him  in  a  joint  where  grafters 
hung  out,  he  displayed  a  split  lip,  given  him 
by  the  biggest  bully  in  the  ward.  It  was  all 
about  a  girl  named  Mollie  whom  the  bully  was 
stuck  on  and  on  whose  account  he  was  jealous 

of  L ,  whom  all  the  women  ran  after.     A 

few  nights  later,  L met  the  bully  who  had 

beaten  him  and  said  he  had  a  present  for  him. 
"Is  it   something  good?"  asked  the  gorilla. 

**  Yes,"  said  L ,  and  shot  him  dead.     L 

[283] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

tried  to  escape,  but  was  caught  in  Pittsburg, 
and  extradited  to  New  York,  where  he  was 
convicted  partly  on  the  testimony  of  the  girl, 
whom  I  used  to  call  Unlimited  Mollie.  She 
was  lucky,  for  instead  of  drifting  to  the  Bowery, 
she  married  a  policeman,  who  was  promoted. 

L was   sentenced   to  be   hanged,  but  he 

died  game. 

I  think  kleptomania  is  not  a  very  common 
kind  of  insanity,  at  least  in  my  experience. 
Most  grafters  steal  for  professional  reasons, 
but  Big  Sammy  was  surely  a  kleptomaniac. 
He  had  no  reason  to  graft,  for  he  was  well  up  in 
the  world.  When  I  first  met  he  was  standard 
bearer  at  a  ball  given  in  his  honor,  and  had  a 
club  named  after  him.  He  had  been  gin-mill 
keeper,  hotel  proprietor,  and  theatrical  man- 
ager, and  had  saved  money.  He  had,  too,  a 
real  romance  in  his  life,  for  he  loved  one  of 
the  best  choir  singers  in  the  city.  She  was 
beautiful  and  loved  him,  and  they  were  married. 
She  did  not  know  that  Sammy  was  a  gun  ; 
indeed,  he  was  not  a  gun,  really,  for  he  only 
used  to  graft  for  excitement,  or  at  least,  what 
business  there  was  in  it  was  only  a  side  issue. 
After  their  honeymoon  Sammy  started  a  hotel 
at  a  sea-side  resort,  where  the  better  class  of 
[284] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

guns,  gamblers  and  vaudeville  artists  spent 
their  vacation.  That  fall  he  went  on  a  tour 
with  his  wife  who  sang  in  many  of  the  churches 
in  the  State.  Sammy  was  a  good  box-man. 
He  never  used  puff  (nitro-glycerine),  but  with 
a  few  tools  opened  the  safes  artistically.  His 
pal  Mike  went  ahead  of  the  touring  couple, 
and  when  Sammy  arrived  at  a  town  he  was 
tipped  off  to  where  the  goods  lay.  When  he 
heard  that  the  police  were  putting  it  on  to  the 
hoboes,  he  thought  it  was  a  good  joke  and 
kept  it  up.  He  wanted  the  police  to  gather 
in  all  the  black  sheep  they  could,  for  he  was 
sorry  they  were  so  incompetent. 

The  loving  couple  returned  to  New  York, 
and  were  happy  for  a  long  time.  But  finally 
the  wife  fell  ill,  and  under-went  an  operation, 
from  the  effects  of  which  she  never  recovered. 
She  became  despondent  and  jealous  of  Sammy, 
though  he  was  one  of  the  best  husbands  I  have 
known.  One  morning  he  had  an  engagement 
to  meet  an  old  pal  who  was  coming  home 
from  stir.  He  was  late,  and  starting  off  in  a 
hurry,  neglected  to  kiss  his  wife  good-bye. 
She  called  after  him  that  he  had  forgotten 
something.  Sammy,  feeling  for  his  money 
and  cannister,  shouted  back  that  everything 
[285] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

was  all  right,  and  rushed  off.  His  wife  must 
have  been  in  an  unusually  gloomy  state  of 
mind,  for  she  took  poison,  and  when  Sammy 
returned,  she  was  dead.  It  drove  Sammy 
almost  insane,  for  he  loved  her  always.  A 
few  days  afterwards  he  jumped  out  for  excite- 
ment and  forgetfulness  and  was  so  reckless 
when  he  tried  to  make  a  touch  that  he  was 
shot  almost  to  pieces.  He  recovered,  how- 
ever, and  was  sent  to  prison  for  a  long  term 
of  years.  He  is  out  again,  and  is  now  regu- 
larly on  the  turf.  During  his  bit  in  stir  all 
his  legitimate  enterprizes  went  wrong,  and 
when  he  was  released,  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  become  a  professional  grafter. 

During  the  seven  months  which  elapsed 
between  the  end  of  my  second,  and  the  begin- 
ning of  my  third  term,  I  was  not  a  very  ener- 
getic grafter,  as  I  have  said.  Graft  was  good 
at  the  time  and  a  man  with  the  least  bit  of 
nerve  could  make  out  fairly  well.  My  nerve 
had  not  deserted  me,  but  somehow  I  was  less 
ambitious.  Philosophy  and  opium  and  bad 
health  do  not  incline  a  man  to  a  hustling  life. 
The  excitement  of  stealing  had  left  me,  and 
now  it  was  merely  business.  I  therefore  did  a 
great  deal  of  swindling,  which  does  not  stir 
[286] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

the  imagination,  but  can  be  done  more  easily 
than  other  forms  of  graft.  I  was  known  at 
headquarters  as  a  dip,  and  so  I  was  not  Hkely 
to  be  suspected  for  occasional  swindling,  just 
as  I  had  been  able  to  do  house-work  now  and 
then  without  a  fall. 

I  did  some  profitable  swindling  at  this  time, 
with  an  Italian  named  Velica  for  a  pal.  It 
was  a  kind  of  graft  which  brought  quick 
returns  without  much  of  an  outlay.  For 
several  weeks  we  fleeced  Velica's  country  men 
brown.  I  impersonated  a  contractor  and 
Velica  was  my  foreman.  We  put  advertise- 
ments in  the  newspapers  for  men  to  work  on 
the  railroads  or  for  labor  on  new  buildings. 
We  hired  desk  room  in  a  cheap  office,  where 
we  awaited  our  suckers,  who  came  in  droves, 
though  only  one  could  see  us  at  a  time.  Our 
tools  for  this  graft  were  pen,  paper,  and  ink; 
and  one  new  shovel  and  pick-axe.  Velica  did 
the  talking  and  I  took  down  the  man's  name 
and  address.  Velica  told  his  countryman  that 
we  could  not  afford  to  run  the  risk  of  disap- 
pointing the  railroad,  so  that  he  would  have  to 
leave  a  deposit  as  a  guarantee  that  he  would 
turn  up  in  the  morning.  If  he  left  a  deposit 
of  a  few  dollars  we  put  his  name  on  the  new 
[287] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

pick  and  shovel,  which  we  told  him  he  could 
come  for  in  the  morning.  If  we  induced  many 
to  give  us  deposits,  using  the  same  pick  and 
shovel  as  a  bribe,  we  made  a  lot  of  money 
during  the  day.  The  next  morning  we  would 
change  our  office  and  vary  our  form  of  adver- 
tisement. 

Sometimes  we  met  our  victims  at  saloons. 
Velica  would  be  talking  to  some  Italian  immi- 
grant who  had  money,  when  I  would  turn  up 
and  be  introduced.  Treating  all  around  and 
flashing  a  roll  of  bills  I  could  soon  win  the 
sucker's  respect  and  confidence,  and  make  him 
ante  up  on  any  old  con.  One  day  in  a  saloon 
in  Newark  we  got  an  Italian  guy  for  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars.  Before  he  left  the 
place,  however,  he  suspected  something.  We 
had  promised  him  the  position  of  foreman  of  a 
gang  of  laborers,  and  after  we  got  his  dough 
we  could  not  let  well  enough  alone,  and  offered 
to  give  his  wife  the  privilege  of  feeding  the 
sixty  Italians  of  whom  he  was  to  be  the  fore- 
man. I  suppose  the  dago  thought  that  we 
were  too  good,  for  he  blew  and  pulled  his 
gun.  I  caught  him  around  the  waist,  and  the 
bartender,  who  was  with  us,  struck  him  over 
the  head  with  a  bottle  of  beer.  The  dago 
[288] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

dropped  the  smoke-wagon  and  the  bartender 
threatened  to  put  him  in  prison  for  puUing  a 
rod  on  respectable  people.  The  dago  left  the 
saloon  and  never  saw  his  money  again. 

About  this  time,  too,  I  had  an  opportunity  to 
go  into  still  another  lucrative  kind  of  swindling, 
but  didn't.  It  was  not  conscience  either  that 
prevented  me  from  swindling  the  fair  sex,  for 
in  those  days  all  touches, — except  those  made 
by  others  off  myself — seemed  legitimate.  I  did 
not  go  in  for  it  because,  at  the  time  it  was 
proposed  to  me,  I  had  enough  money  for  my 
needs,  and  as  I  have  said,  I  was  lazy.  It  was  a 
good  graft,  however,  and  I  was  a  fool  for  not 
ringing  in  on  it.  The  scheme  was  to  hire  a 
floor  in  a  private  house  situated  in  any  good 
neighborhood.  One  of  the  mob  had  to  know 
German,  and  then  an  advertisement  would  be 
inserted  in  the  Herald  to  the  effect  that  a 
young  German  doctor  who  had  just  come 
from  the  old  country  wanted  to  meet  a  Ger- 
man lady  of  some  means  with  a  view  to  matri- 
mony. A  pal  of  mine  who  put  such  an  adver- 
tisement in  a  Chicago  paper  received  no  less 
than  one  hundred  and  forty  five  answers  from 
women  ranging  in  age  from  fifteen  to  fifty. 
The  grafters  would  read  the  letters  and  decide 
[289] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

as  to  which  ladies  they  thought  had  some 
money.  When  these  arrived  at  the  office,  in 
answer  to  the  grafters'  letters,  they  would 
meet  two  or  three  men,  impersonating  the 
doctor  and  his  friends,  who  had  the  gift  of 
"  con  "  to  a  remarkable  degree.  The  doctor 
would  suggest  that  if  the  lady  would  advance 
sufficient  money  to  start  him  in  business  in 
the  West  it  would  be  well.  If  he  found  she 
had  plenty  of  money  he  married  her  immedi- 
ately, one  of  his  pals  acting  the  clergyman. 
She  then  drew  all  her  money  from  the  bank, 
and  they  went  to  a  hotel.  There  the  doctor 
leaving  her  in  their  room,  would  go  to  see 
about  the  tickets  for  the  West,  and  never 
return.  The  ladies  always  jumped  at  these 
offers,  for  all  German  women  want  to  marry 
doctors  or  clergymen  ;  and  all  women  are  soft, 
even  if  they  are  so  apt  to  be  natural  pilferers 
themselves. 

When  I  was  hard  up,  and  if  there  was  no 
good  confidence  game  in  sight,  I  didn't  mind 
taking  heavy  chances  in  straight  grafting ;  for 
I  lived  in  a  dream,  and  through  opium,  was 
not  only  lazy,  but  reckless.  On  one  occasion 
a  Jew  fence  had  put  up  a  plan  to  get  a  big 
touch,  and  picked  me  out  to  do  the  desperate 
[290] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

part  of  the  job.  The  fence  was  an  expert 
in  jewels  and  worked  for  one  of  the  biggest 
firms  that  dealt  in  precious  stones.  He  kept 
an  eye  on  all  such  stores,  watching  for  an 
opening  to  put  his  friends  the  grafters  "next." 
To  the  place  in  question  he  was  tipped  off  by 
a  couple  of  penny  weighters,  who  claimed  it 
was  a  snap.  He  agreed  with  them,  but  kept 
his  opinion  to  himself,  and  came  to  see  me 
about  it.  I  and  two  other  grafters  watched 
the  place  for  a  week.  One  day  the  two  clerks 
went  out  together  for  lunch,  leaving  the  pro- 
prietor alone  in  the  store.  This  was  the 
opportunity.  I  stationed  one  of  my  pals  at 
the  window  outside  and  the  other  up  the 
street  to  watch.  If  I  had  much  trouble  with 
"the  mark"  the  pal  at  the  window  was  to 
come  to  my  assistance.  With  red  pepper  (to 
throw,  if  necessary,  in  the  sucker's  eyes)  and  a 
good  black  jack  I  was  to  go  into  the  store  and 
buy  a  baby's  ring  for  one  dollar.  While  wait- 
ing for  my  change,  I  was  to  price  a  piece  of 
costly  jewelry,  and  while  talking  about  the 
merits  of  the  diamond,  hit  my  man  on  the 
head  with  the  black  jack.  Then  all  I  had  to 
do  was  to  go  behind  the  counter  and  take  the 
entire  contents  of  the  window — only  a  minute's 
[291] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

work,  for  all  the  costly  jewels  were  lying  on  an 
embroidered  piece  of  velvet,  and  I  had  only  to 
pick  up  the  four  corners  of  the  velvet,  bundle 
it  into  a  green  bag,  and  jump  into  the  cab 
which  was  waiting  for  us  a  block  away.  Well, 
I  had  just  about  got  the  proprietor  in  a  posi- 
tion to  deal  him  the  blow  when  the  man  at 
the  window  weakened,  and  came  in  and  said, 
""  Vix."  I  thought  there  was  a  copper  outside, 
or  that  one  of  the  clerks  was  returning,  and 
told  the  jeweler  I  would  send  my  wife  for  the 
ring.  I  went  out  and  asked  my  pal  what  was 
the  matter.  He  said  he  was  afraid  I  would 
kill  the  old  fellow,  and  that  the  come-back 
would  be  too  strong.  My  other  pal  I  found  a 
block  away.  We  all  went  back  together  to 
the  fence,  and  then  I  opened  on  them,  I 
tell  you.  I  called  them  petty  larceny  barna- 
cles, and  came  near  clubbing  them,  I  was  so 
indignant.  I  have  often  had  occasion  to  notice 
that  most  thieves  who  will  steal  a  diamond  or 
a  "front"  weaken  when  it  comes  to  a  large 
touch,  even  though  there  may  be  no  more 
danger  in  it  than  in  the  smaller  enterprises. 
I  gave  those  two  men  a  wide  berth  after  that, 
and  whenever  I  met  them  I  sneered ;  for  I 
could  not  get  over  being  sore.  The  "  touch  " 
[292] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

was  a  beauty,  with  very  little  chance  of  a 
come-back,  for  the  police  don't  look  among 
the  pickpockets  for  the  men  who  make  this 
kind  of  touches,  and  I  and  my  two  companions 
were  known  to  the  coppers  as  dips. 

Just  before  I  fell  for  my  third  and  most  ter- 
rible term,  I  met  Lottie,  and  thought  of  mar- 
rying. I  did  not  love  her,  but  liked  her 
pretty  well,  and  I  was  beginning  to  feel  that  I 
ought  to  settle  down  and  have  a  decent  woman 
to  look  after  me,  for  my  health  was  bad  and  I 
had  little  ambition.  Lottie  seemed  the  right 
girl  for  the  place.  She  was  of  German  extrac- 
tion, and  used  to  shave  me  sometimes  at  her 
father's  barber  shop,  where  I  first  met  her. 
She  seemed  to  me  a  good,  honest  girl,  and  I 
thought  I  could  not  do  better,  especially  as 
she  was  very  fond  of  me.  Women  like  the 
spruce  dips,  as  I  have  said  before,  and  even 
when  my  graft  had  broadened,  I  always  re- 
tained the  dress,  manners  and  reputation  of  a 
pickpocket.  Lottie  promised  to  marry  me, 
and  said  that  she  could  raise  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars from  her  father,  with  which  I  might  start 
another  barber  shop,  quit  grafting,  and  settle 
down  to  my  books,  my  hop  and  domestic  life. 
One  day  she  gave  me  a  pin  that  cost  nine  dol- 
[293] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

lars,  she  said,  and  she  wouldn't  let  me  make 
her  a  present.  All  in  all,  she  seemed  like  a 
sensible  girl,  and  I  was  getting  interested  in 
the  marriage  idea.  One  day,  however,  I  dis- 
covered something.  I  was  playing  poker  in 
the  office  of  a  hotel  kept  by  a  friend  of  mine, 
when  a  man  and  woman  came  down  stairs 
together  and  passed  through  the  office.  They 
were  my  little  German  girl  and  the  owner  of  a 
pawn-shop,  a  Sheenie  of  advanced  years.  Sud- 
denly I  realized  where  she  had  got  the  pin 
she  gave  me ;  and  I  began  to  believe  stories 
I  had  heard  about  her.  I  thought  I  would 
test  her  character  myself.  I  did,  and  found  it 
weak.  I  did  not  marry  her !  What  an  escape  I 
Every  man,  even  a  self-respecting  gun,  wants 
an  honest  woman,  if  it  comes  to  hitching  up 
for  good. 

Soon  after  I  escaped  Lottie,  I  got  my  third 
fall  for  the  stir.  The  other  times  that  I  had 
been  convicted,  I  was  guilty,  but  on  this 
occasion  I  was  entirely  innocent.  Often  a  man 
who  has  done  time  and  is  well-known  to  the 
police  is  rounded  up  on  suspicion  and  convicted 
when  he  is  innocent,  and  I  fell  a  victim  to  this 
easy  way  of  the  officials  for  covering  up  their 
failure  to  find  the  right  person.  I  had  gone 
[294] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

one  night  to  an  opium  joint  near  Lover's  Row, 
a  section  of  Henry  Street  between  Catherine 
and  OHver  Streets,  where  some  guns  of  both 
sexes  were  to  have  a  social  meeting.  We 
smoked  hop  and  drank  heavily  and  told  stories 
of  our  latest  touches.  While  we  were  thus 
engaged  I  began  to  have  severe  pains  in  my 
chest,  which  had  been  bothering  me  occasion- 
ally for  some  time,  and  suddenly  I  had  a  hemor- 
rhage. When  I  was  able  I  left  the  joint  to 
see  a  doctor,  who  stopped  the  flow  of  blood, 
but  told  me  I  would  not  live  a  month  if  I  did 
not  take  good  care  of  myself.  I  got  aboard  a 
car,  went  soberly  home  to  my  furnished  room, 
and — was  arrested. 

I  knew  I  had  not  committed  any  crime  this 
time  and  thought  I  should  of  course  be  released 
in  the  morning.  Instead  however  of  being 
taken  directly  to  the  station  house,  I  was  con- 
ducted to  a  saloon,  and  confronted  with  the 
"  sucker".  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  but  he 
identified  me,  just  the  same,  as  the  man  who  had 
picked  his  pocket.  I  asked  him  how  long  ago 
he  had  missed  his  valuables,  and  when  he  an- 
swered, "  Three  hours,"  I  drew  a  long  sigh  of 
relief,  for  I  was  at  the  joint  at  that  time,  and 
thought  I  could  prove  an  alibi.  But  though 
[295] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

the  rapper  seemed  to  weaken,  the  copper  was 
less  trustful  and  read  the  riot  act  to  him.  I 
was  so  indignant  I  began  to  call  the  policeman 
down  vigorously.  I  told  him  he  had  better 
try  to  make  a  reputation  on  me  some  other 
time,  when  I  was  really  guilty,  whereupon  he 
lost  his  temper,  and  jabbed  me  in  the  chest 
with  his  club,  which  brought  on  another  flow 
of  blood  from  my  lungs. 

In  this  plight  I  was  taken  to  the  station 
house,  still  confident  I  should  soon  be  set  at 
liberty,  although  I  had  only  about  eighty 
dollars  for  fall-money.  I  hardly  thought  I 
needed  it,  but  I  used  it  just  the  same,  to  make 
sure,  and  employed  a  lawyer.  For  a  while 
things  looked  favorable  to  me,  for  I  was  re- 
manded back  from  court  every  morning  for 
eight  days,  on  account  of  lack  of  evidence, 
which  is  almost  equivalent  to  a  turn-out  in  a 
larceny  case.  Even  the  copper  began  to  pig 
it  (weaken),  probably  thinking  he  might  as 
well  get  a  share  of  my  "dough,"  since  it  be- 
gan to  look  as  if  I  should  beat  the  case.  But 
on  the  ninth  day  luck  turned  against  me.  The 
Chief  of  detectives  "  identified  "  me  as  another 
man,  whispering  a  few  words  to  the  justice, 
and  I  was  committed  under  two  thousand 
[296] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

dollars  bail  to  stand  trial  in  General  Sessions. 
I  was  sent  to  the  Tombs  to  await  trial,  and  I 
knew  at  last  that  I  was  lost.  My  character 
alone  would  convict  me ;  and  my  lawyer  had 
told  me  that  I  could  not  prove  an  alibi  on  the 
oaths  of  the  thieves  and  disorderly  persons 
who  had  been  with  me  in  the  opium  joint. 

No  matter  how  confirmed  a  thief  a  man  may 
be,  I  repeat,  he  hates  to  be  convicted  for 
something  he  has  not  done.  He  objects  in- 
deed more  than  an  honest  man  would  do,  for 
he  believes  in  having  the  other  side  play  fair ; 
whereas  the  honest  man  simply  thinks  a  mis- 
take has  been  made.  While  in  the  Tombs  a 
murderous  idea  formed  in  my  mind.  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  horribly  wronged,  and  was 
hot  for  revenge.  I  was  desperate,  too,  for  I 
did  not  think  I  should  live  my  bit  out.  De- 
termined to  make  half  a  dozen  angels,  includ- 
ing myself,  I  induced  a  friend,  who  came  to 
see  me  in  the  Tombs,  to  get  me  a  revolver. 
I  told  him  I  wanted  to  create  a  panic  with  a 
couple  of  shots,  and  escape,  but  in  reality  I 
had  no  thought  of  escape.  I  was  offered  a 
light  sentence,  if  I  would  plead  guilty,  but  I 
refused.  I  believed  I  was  going  to  die  any- 
way, and  that  things  did  not  matter ;  only  I 
[297] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

would  have  as  much  company  as  possible  on 
the  road  to  the  other  world.  I  meant  to  shoot 
the  copper  who  had  beaten  me  with  his  club, 
District  Attorney  Olcott,  the  judge,  the  com- 
plainant and  myself  as  well,  as  soon  as  I  should 
be  taken  into  the  court  room  for  trial.  The 
pistol  however  was  taken  away  from  me  before 
I  entered  the  court :  I  was  convicted  and 
sentenced  to  five  years  at  Sing  Sing. 

Much  of  the  time  I  spent  in  stir  on  my  third 
bit  I  still  harbored  this  thought  of  murder. 
That  was  one  reason  I  did  not  kill  myself. 
The  determination  to  do  the  copper  on  my 
release  was  always  in  my  mind.  I  planned 
even  a  more  cunning  revenge.  I  imagined 
many  a  scheme  to  get  him,  and  gloat  over  his 
dire  misfortunes.  One  of  my  plans  was  to 
hunt  him  out  on  his  beat,  invite  him  to  drink, 
and  put  thirty  grains  of  hydrate  of  chloral  in 
his  glass.  When  he  had  become  unconscious 
I  would  put  a  bottle  of  morphine  in  his  trou- 
sers pocket,  and  then  telephone  to  a  few  news- 
papers telling  them  that  if  they  would  send 
reporters  to  the  saloon  they  would  have  a 
good  story  against  a  dope  copper  who  smoked 
too  much.  The  result  would  be,  I  thought,  a 
rap  against  the  copper  and  his  disgrace  and 
[298] 


On  the  Outside  Again. 

dismissal  from  the  force  would  follow.  Some- 
times this  seemed  to  me  better  than  murder ; 
for  every  copper  who  is  "broke"  immediately 
becomes  a  bum.  When  my  copper  should 
have  become  a  bum  I  imagined  myself  catch- 
ing him  dead  drunk  and  cutting  his  ham- 
strings. Certainly  I  was  a  fiend  when  I  re- 
flected on  my  wrongs,  real  and  imaginary. 
At  other  times  I  thought  I  merely  killed  him 
outright. 


[299] 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

In  the  Mad-House. 

On  the  road  to  Sing  Sing  again !  The 
pubHc  may  say  I  was  surely  an  incorrigible 
and  ought  to  have  been  shut  up  anyway  for  safe 
keeping,  but  are  they  right  if  they  say  so  ?  Dur- 
ing my  confinement  I  often  heard  the  prison 
chaplain  preach  from  the  text  "  Though  thou 
sinnest  ninety  and  nine  times  thy  sin  shall  be 
forgiven  thee. " 

Probably  Christ  knew  what  He  meant :  His 
words  do  not  apply  to  the  police  courts  of 
Manhattan.  These  do  not  forgive,  but  send 
you  up  for  the  third  term,  which,  if  it  is  a 
long  one,  no  man  can  pass  through  without 
impairment  in  body  or  in  brain.  It  is  better 
to  make  the  convict's  life  as  hard  as  hell  for  a 
short  term,  than  to  wear  out  his  mind  and 
body.  People  need  not  wonder  why  a  man, 
knowing  what  is  before  him,  steals  and  steals 
again.  The  painful  experiences  of  his  prison 
life,  too  often  renewed,  leave  him  as  water 
leaves  a  rubber  coat.  Few  men  are  really 
[300] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

impressionable  after  going  through  the  dead- 
ening Hfe  in  stir. 

Five  months  of  my  third  term  I  spent  at 
Sing  Sing,  and  then,  as  on  my  first  bit,  I  was 
drafted  to  Auburn.  At  Sing  Sing  I  was  clas- 
sified as  a  second  term  man.  I  have  already 
explained  that  during  my  first  term  I  earned 
over  a  year's  commutation  time  ;  and  that  that 
time  would  have  been  legally  forfeited  when 
I  was  sent  up  again  within  nine  months  for 
my  second  bit  if  any  one,  except  a  few  con- 
victs, had  remembered  I  had  served  before. 

When,  on  my  third  sentence,  I  now  returned 
to  Sing  Sing,  I  found  that  the  authorities 
were  "next,"  and  knew  that  I  had  "done" 
them  on  the  second  bit.  They  were  sore, 
because  it  had  been  their  own  carelessness, 
and  they  were  afraid  of  getting  into  trouble. 
To  protect  themselves  they  classified  me  as  a 
second  term  man,  but  waited  for  a  chance  to 

do  me.      I  suppose  it  was  some  d Dickey 

Bird  (stool-pigeon)  who  got  them  next  that  I 
had  done  them  ;  but  I  never  heard  who  it  was, 
though  I  tried  to  find  out  long  and  earnestly. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  cell  in  Sing  Sing  this 
third  time  I  was  gloomy  and  desperate  to  an 
unusual  degree,  still  eaten  up  with  my  desire  for 
[301  ] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

vengeance  on  those  who  had  sent  me  to  stir  for 
a  crime  I  had  not  committed.  My  health  was 
so  bad  that  my  friends  told  me  I  would  never 
live  my  bit  out,  and  advised  me  to  get  to 
Clinton  prison,  if  possible,  away  from  the 
damp  cells  at  Sing  Sing.  But  I  took  no 
interest  in  what  they  said,  for  I  did  not  care 
whether  I  lived  or  died.  I  expected  to  die 
very  soon,  and  in  the  meantime  thought  I 
was  well  enough  where  I  was.  I  did  not  fear 
death,  and  I  had  my  hop  every  day.  All  I 
wanted  from  the  keepers  was  to  be  let  alone 
in  my  cell  and  not  annoyed  with  work.  The 
authorities  had  an  inkling  that  I  was  in  a  des- 
perate state  of  mind,  and  probably  believed  it 
was  healthier  for  them  to  let  me  alone  a  good 
deal  of  the  time. 

Before  long  schemes  began  to  form  in  my 
head  to  make  my  gets  (escape) .  I  knew  I 
wouldn't  stop  at  murder,  if  necessary  in  order 
to  spring ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  I  cared  not 
whether  I  lived  or  died.  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, I  rather  preferred  to  become  an  angel  at 
the  beginning  of  my  bit  than  at  the  end.  I 
kept  my  schemes  for  escape  to  myself,  for  I 
was  afraid  of  a  leak,  but  the  authorities  must 
somehow  have  suspected  something,  for  they 
[302] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

kept  me  In  my  cell  twenty-three  hours  out  of 
the  twenty-four.  Perhaps  it  was  just  because 
they  had  it  in  for  me  for  beating  them  on  my 
second  bit.  As  before,  I  consoled  myself, 
while  waiting  a  chance  to  escape,  with  some 
of  my  favorite  authors ;  but  my  eye-sight  was 
getting  bad  and  I  could  not  read  as  much  as  I 
used  to. 

It  was  during  these  five  months  at  Sing  Sing 
that  I  first  met  Dr.  Myers,  of  whom  I  saw 
much  a  year  or  two  later  in  the  mad-house. 
At  Sing  Sing  he  had  some  privileges,  and 
used  to  work  in  the  hall,  where  it  was  easy  for 
me  to  talk  to  him  through  my  cell  door. 
This  remarkable  man,  had  been  a  splendid 
physician  in  Chicago.  He  had  beaten  some 
insurance  companies  out  of  one  hundred  and 
sixty-five  thousand  dollars,  but  was  in  Sing 
Sing  because  he  had  been  wrongfully  con- 
victed on  a  charge  of  murder.  He  liked  me, 
especially  when  later  we  were  in  the  insane 
asylum  together,  because  I  would  not  stand 
for  the  abuse  given  to  the  poor  lunatics,  and 
would  do  no  stool-pigeon  or  other  dirty  work 
for  the  keepers.  He  used  to  tell  me  that  I 
was  too  bright  a  man  to  do  any  work  with  my 
hands.  "Jim,"  he  said  once,  **  I  would  rather 
[303] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

see  you  marry  my  daughter  than  give  her  to 
an  ignorant  business  man.  I  know  you  would 
treat  her  kindly  and  that  she  would  learn 
something  of  the  world.  As  my  wife  often 
said,  I  would  rather  die  at  thirty-eight  after 
seeing  the  world  and  enjoying  life  than  live  in 
a  humdrum  way  till  ninety." 

He  explained  the  insurance  graft  to  me, 
and  I  still  think  it  the  surest  and  most  lucra- 
tive of  all  grafts.  For  a  man  with  intelligence 
it  is  the  very  best  kind  of  crooked  work. 
About  the  only  way  the  insurance  companies 
can  get  back  at  the  thieves  is  through  a  squeal. 
Here  are  a  few  of  the  schemes  he  told  me  for 
this  graft  : 

A  man  and  his  female  pal  take  a  small 
house  in  town  or  on  the  outskirts  of  a  large 
city.  The  man  insures  his  life  for  five  thous- 
and dollars.  After  they  have  lived  there  a 
while,  and  passed  perhaps  as  music  teachers, 
they  take  the  next  step,  which  is  to  get  a  dead 
body.  Nothing  is  easier.  The  man  goes  to 
any  large  hospital,  represents  himself  as  a 
doctor  and  for  twenty-five  dollars  can  gener- 
ally get  a  stiff,  which  he  takes  away  in  a  barrel 
or  trunk.  He  goes  to  a  furnished  room, 
already  secured,  and  there  dresses  the  cadaver 
[304] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

in  his  own  clothes,  putting  his  watch,  letters 
and  money  in  the  cadaver's  pockets.  In  the 
evening  he  takes  the  body  to  some  river  or 
stream  and  throws  it  in.  He  knows  from  the 
newspapers  when  the  body  has  been  found, 
and  notifies  his  woman  pal,  who  identifies  it 
as  her  husband's  body.  There  are  only  two 
snags  that  one  must  guard  against  in  this  plot. 
The  cadaver  must  not  differ  much  in  height 
from  the  person  that  has  been  insured  ;  and  its 
lungs  must  not  show  that  they  were  those  of 
anybody  dead  before  thrown  into  the  water. 
The  way  to  prepare  against  this  danger  is  to 
inject  some  water  with  a  small  medical  pump 
into  the  lungs  of  the  stiff  before  it  is  thrown 
overboard.  Then  it  is  easy  for  the  "  widow" 
to  get  the  money,  and  meet  the  alleged  dead 
man  in  another  country. 

A  more  complicated  method,  in  which  more 
money  is  involved,  is  as  follows.  The  grafter 
hires  an  office  and  represents  himself  as  an 
artist,  a  bric-a-brac  dealer,  a  promoter  or  an 
architect.  Then  he  jumps  to  another  city  and 
takes  out  a  policy  under  the  tontien  or  endow- 
ment plan.  When  the  game  is  for  a  very 
large  amount  three  or  four  pals  are  necessary. 
If  no  one  of  the  grafters  is  a  doctor,  a  phy- 
[305] 


-^ 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

sician  must  be  impersonated,  but  this  is  easy. 
If  there  are,  say,  ten  thousand  physicians  in 
Manhattan,  not  many  of  whom  have  an  in- 
come of  ten  thousand  a  year,  it  is  perhaps 
not  difficult  to  get  a  diploma.  After  a  sheep- 
skin is  secured,  the  grafter  goes  to  another 
State,  avoiding,  unless  he  is  a  genuine  phy- 
sician, New  York  and  Illinois,  for  they  have 
boards  of  regents.  The  acting  quack  registers 
so  that  he  can  practice  medicine  and  hangs 
out  his  shingle.  The  acting  business  man 
takes  out  a  policy,  and  pays  the  first  premium. 
Before  the  first  premium  is  paid  he  is  dead, 
for  all  the  insurance  company  knows.  Often 
a  live  substitute,  instead  of  a  dead  one,  is 
secured.  The  grafter  goes  to  the  charity 
hospital  and  looks  over  the  wrecks  waiting  to 
die.  Some  of  these  poor  dying  devils  jump 
at  the  chance  to  go  West.  It  is  necessary,  of 
course,  to  make  sure  that  the  patient  will  soon 
become  an  angel,  or  everything  will  fall 
through.  Then  the  grafter  takes  the  sick 
man  to  his  house  and  keeps  him  out  of  sight. 
When  he  is  about  to  die  he  calls  in  the  grafter 
who  is  posing  as  a  physician.  After  the  death 
of  the  substitute  the  doctor  signs  the  death 
certificate,  the  undertaker  prepares  the  body, 
[306] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

which  is  buried.  The  woman  grafter  is  at  the 
funeral,  and  afterwards  she  sends  in  her  claim 
to  the  companies.  On  one  occasion  in  Dr. 
Myers's  experience,  he  told  me,  the  alleged 
insured  man  was  found  later  with  his  head 
blown  off,  but  when  the  wife  identified  the 
body,  the  claim  had  been  paid. 

One  afternoon,  after  I  had  been  at  Sing 
Sing  five  months,  I  was  taken  from  my  cell, 
shackled  hand  and  foot,  and  sent,  with  fifty 
other  convicts,  to  Auburn.  When  I  had  been 
at  Auburn  prison  about  six  months  I  grew 
again  exceedingly  desperate,  and  made  several 
wild  and  ill-thought-out  attempts  to  escape.  I 
would  take  no  back  talk  from  the  keepers,  and 
began  to  be  feared  by  them.  One  day  I  had 
a  fight  with  another  convict.  He  struck  me 
with  an  iron  weapon,  and  I  sent  him  to  the 
hospital  with  knife  thrusts  through  several 
parts  of  his  body.  Although  I  had  been  a 
thief  all  my  life,  and  had  done  some  strong 
arm  work,  by  nature  I  was  not  quarrelsome, 
and  I  have  never  been  so  quick  to  fight  as  on 
my  third  term.  I  was  locked  up  in  the  dun- 
geon for  a  week  and  fed  on  bread  and  water  in 
small  quantities.  After  my  release  I  was  con- 
[307] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

fined  to  my  cell  for  several  days,  and  used  to 
quarrel  with  whoever  came  near  me.  The 
keepers  began  to  regard  me  as  a  desperate 
character,  who  would  cause  them  a  great  deal 
of  trouble ;  and  feared  that  I  might  escape  or 
commit  murder  at  any  time.  One  day,  I  re- 
member, a  keeper  threatened  to  club  me  with 
a  heavy  stick  he  had.  I  laughed  at  him  and 
told  him  to  make  a  good  job  of  it,  for  I  had 
some  years  still  to  serve,  and  if  he  did  not  kill 
me  outright,  I  would  have  plenty  of  time  to 
get  back  at  him.  The  cur  pigged  it  (weak- 
ened). They  really  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me, 
however,  and  one  morning  the  opportunity 
came. 

I  was  feeling  especially  bad  that  morning 
and  went  to  see  the  doctor,  who  told  me  I  had 
consumption,  and  transferred  me  to  the  con- 
sumptive ward  in  the  prison.  There  the  doc- 
tor and  four  screws  came  to  my  bedside,  and 
the  doctor  inserted  a  hyperdermic  needle  into 
my  arm.  When  I  awoke  I  found  myself  in 
the  isolated  dungeon,  nicknamed  the  Keeley 
Cure  by  the  convicts,  where  I  was  confined 
again  for  several  weeks,  and  had  a  hyperdermic 
injection  every  day.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
I  was  taken  before  the  doctors,  who  pro- 
[308] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

nounced  me  insane.  With  three  other  con- 
victs who  were  said  to  be  "  pipes  "  (insane)  I 
was  shackled  hand  and  foot,  put  on  a  train 
and  taken  to  the  asylum  for  the  criminal  in- 
sane at  Matteawan.  I  had  been  in  bad  places 
before,  but  at  Matteawan  I  first  learned  what 
it  is  to  be  in  Hell. 

Why  was  I  put  in  the  Pipe  House  ?     Was 
I  insane? 

In  one  way  I  have  been  insane  all  my  life, 
until  recently.  There  is  a  disease  called  astig- 
matism of  the  conscience,  and  I  have  been 
sorely  afflicted  with  that.  I  have  always  had 
the  delusion,  until  the  last  few  months,  that  it 
is  well  to  "do  "  others.  In  that  way  I  certainly 
was  "  pipes."  And  in  another  way,  too,  I  was 
insane.  After  a  man  has  served  many  years 
in  stir  and  has  contracted  all  the  vices,  he  is 
not  normal,  even  if  he  is  not  violently  insane. 
His  brain  loses  its  equilibrium,  no  matter  how 
strong-minded  he  may  be,  and  he  acquires 
astigmatism  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  of  the  con- 
science. The  more  astigmatic  he  becomes, 
the  more  frequently  he  returns  to  stir,  where 
his  disease  grows  worse,  until  he  is  prison-mad. 

To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief  I 
was  not  insane  in  any  definite  way — no  more 
[309] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

so  than  are  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  men  who  had 
served  as  much  time  in  prison  as  I.  I  suppose 
I  was  not  sent  to  the  criminal  insane  asylum 
because  of  a  perverted  conscience.  The  stir, 
I  believe,  is  supposed  to  cure  that.  Why  did 
they  send  me  to  the  mad-house?  I  don't 
know,  any  more  than  my  reader,  unless  it  was 
because  I  caused  the  keepers  and  doctors  too 
much  trouble,  or  because  for  some  reason  or 
other  they  wanted  to  do  me. 

But  whether  I  had  a  delusion  or  not — and  I 
am  convinced  myself  that  I  have  always  been 
right  above  the  ears — there  certainly  are  many 
perfectly  sane  men  confined  in  our  state 
asylums  for  the  criminal  insane.  Indeed,  if  all 
the  fake  lunatics  were  sent  back  to  prison,  it 
would  save  the  state  the  expense  of  building 
so  many  hospitals.  But  I  suppose  the  politi- 
cians who  want  patronage  to  distribute  would 
object. 

Many  men  in  prison  fake  insanity,  as  I  have 
already  explained.  Many  of  them  desire  to 
be  sent  to  Matteawan  or  Dannemora  insane 
asylums,  thinking  they  will  not  need  to  work 
there,  will  have  better  food  and  can  more 
easily  escape.  They  imagine  that  there  are 
no  stool-pigeons  in  the  pipe-house,  and  that 
[310] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

they  can  therefore  easily  make  their  elegant 
(escape).  When  they  get  to  the  mad-house 
they  find  themselves  sadly  mistaken.  They 
find  many  sane  stool-pigeons  there,  and  their 
plans  for  escape  are  piped  off  as  well  there  as 
in  stir.  And  in  other  ways,  as  I  shall  explain, 
they  are  disappointed.  The  reason  the  "  cons  " 
don't  get  on  to  the  situation  in  the  mad-house 
through  friends  who  have  been  there  is  that 
they  think  those  who  have  been  in  the  insane 
asylum  are  really  pipes.  When  I  got  out  of 
the  mad-house  and  told  my  friends  about  it, 
they  were  apt  to  remark,  laconically,  "  He's  in 
a  terrible  state."  When  they  get  there  them- 
selves, God  help  them.  I  will  narrate  what  hap- 
pened to  me,  and  some  of  the  horrible  things 
I  saw  there. 

After  my  pedigree  was  taken  I  was  given 
the  regulation  clothes,  which,  in  the  mad-house, 
consist  of  a  blue  coat,  a  pair  of  grey  trousers, 
a  calico  shirt,  socks  and  a  pair  of  slippers.  I 
was  then  taken  to  the  worst  violent  ward  in 
the  institution,  where  I  had  a  good  chance  to 
observe  the  real  and  the  fake  lunatics.  No 
man  or  woman,  not  even  an  habitual  criminal, 
can  conceive,  unless  he  has  been  there  him- 
self, what  our  state  asylums  are.  My  very 
[311] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

first  experience  was  a  jar.  A  big  lunatic,  six 
feet  high  and  a  giant  in  physique,  came  up  to 
me  in  the   ward,  and   said  :     '*  I'll   kick  your 

head  off,  you  ijit  (idiot).     What  the did  j 

you  come  here  for  ?  Why  didn't  you  stop  off 
at  Buffalo  ?  "  I  thought  that  if  all  the  loons 
were  the  size  of  this  one  I  wasn't  going  to  have 
much  show  in  that  violent  ward ;  for  I  weighed 
only  one  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds  at  the 
time.  But  the  big  lunatic  changed  his  note, 
smiled  and  said :  "  Say,  Charley,  have  you 
got  any  marbles?"  I  said,  "  No,"  and  then, 
quick  as  a  flash,  he  exclaimed :  "Be  Japes, 
you  don't  look  as  if  you  had  enough  brains  to 
play  them." 

I  had  been  in  this  ward,  which  was  under 
the  Head  Attendant,  nick-named  "  King " 
Kelly,  for  two  days,  when  I  was  taken  away  to 
a  dark  room  in  which  a  demented,  scrofulous 
negro  had  been  kept.  For  me  not  even  a 
change  of  bed-clothing  was  made.  In  rooms 
on  each  side  of  me  were  epileptics  and  I  could 
hear,  especially  when  I  was  in  the  ward,  raving 
maniacs  shouting  all  about  me.  I  was  taken 
back  to  the  first  ward,  where  I  stayed  for  some 
time.  I  began  to  think  that  prison  was  heaven 
in  comparison  with  the  pipe  house.  The  food 
[312] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

was  poor,  we  were  not  supposed  to  do  any 
work,  and  we  were  allowed  only  an  hour  in  the 
yard.  We  stayed  in  our  ward  from  half  past 
five  in  the  morning  until  six  o'clock  at  night, 
when  we  went  to  bed.  It  was  then  I  suffered 
most,  for  there  was  no  light  and  I  could  not 
read.  In  stir  I  could  lie  on  my  cot  and  read, 
and  soothe  my  nerves.  But  in  the  mad-house 
I  was  not  allowed  to  read,  and  lay  av/^ke 
continually  at  night  listening  to  the  idiots 
bleating  and  the  maniacs  raving  about  me. 
The  din  was  horrible,  and  I  am  convinced  that 
in  the  course  of  time  even  a  sane  man  kept  in 
an  insane  asylum  will  be  mad  ;  those  who  are 
a  little  delusional  will  go  violently  insane.  My 
three  years  in  an  insane  asylum  convinced  me 
that,  beyond  doubt,  a  man  contracts  a  mental 
ailment  just  as  he  contracts  a  physical  disease 
on  the  outside.  I  believe  in  mental  as  well  as 
physical  contagion,  for  I  have  seen  man  after 
man,  a  short  time  after  arriving  at  the  hospital, 
become  a  raving  maniac. 

For  weeks  and  months  I  had  a  terrible  fight 
with  myself  to  keep  my  sanity.  As  I  had  no 
books  to  take  up  my  thoughts  I  got  into  the 
habit  of  solving  an  arithmetical  problem  every 
day.  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  persistence  in 
[313] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

this  mental  occupation  I  have  no  doubt  I  should 
have  gone  violently  insane. 

It  is  only  the  sensitive  and  intelligent  man 
who,  when  placed  in  such  a  predicament,  really 
knows  what  torture  is.  The  cries  of  the  poor 
demented  wretches  about  me  were  a  terrible 
lesson.  They  showed  me  more  than  any  other 
experience  I  ever  passed  through  the  error  of 
a  crooked  life. 

I  met  many  a  man  in  the  violent  ward  who 
had  been  a  friend  of  mine  and  good  fellow  on 
the  outside.  Now  the  brains  of  all  of  them  were 
gone,  they  had  the  most  horrible  and  the  most 
grotesque  delusions.  But  horrible  or  grotesque 
they  were  always  piteous.  If  I  were  to  point 
out  the  greatest  achievement  that  man  has 
accomplished  to  distinguish  him  from  the 
brute,  it  would  be  the  taking  care  of  the  insane. 
A  child  is  so  helpless  that  when  alms  is  asked 
for  his  maintenance  it  is  given  willingly,  for 
every  man  and  woman  pities  and  loves  a  child. 
A  lunatic  is  as  helpless  as  a  child,  and  often 
not  any  more  dangerous.  The  maniac  is  mis- 
represented, for  in  Matteawan  and  Danne- 
mora  taken  together  there  are  very  few  who 
are  really  violent. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  most  terrible  part  of 
[314] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

my  narrative,  which  many  people  will  not  be- 
lieve— and  that  is  the  cruelty  of  the  doctors 
and  attendants,  cruelty  practiced  upon  these 
poor,  deluded  wretches. 

With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  scores  of  instances 
of  abuse  while  I  was  at  Matteawan  and  later 
at  Dannemora.  It  is,  I  believe,  against  the 
law  to  strike  an  insane  man,  but  any  man  who 
has  ever  been  in  these  asylums  knows  how 
habitual  the  practice  is.  I  have  often  seen 
idiots  in  the  same  ward  with  myself  violently 
attacked  and  beaten  by  several  keepers  at 
once.  Indeed,  some  of  us  used  to  regard  a 
beating  as  our  daily  medicine.  Patients  are 
not  supposed  to  do  any  work  ;  but  those  who 
refused  to  clean  up  the  wards  and  do  other 
work  for  the  attendants  were  the  ones  most 
likely  to  receive  little  mercy. 

I  know  how  difficult  it  is  for  the  public  to 
believe  that  some  of  their  institutions  are  as 
rotten  as  those  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  when 
a  man  who  has  been  both  in  prison  and  in  the 
pipe  house  is  the  one  who  makes  the  accusa- 
tion, who  will  believe  him  ?  Of  course,  his 
testimony  on  the  witness  stand  is  worthless. 
I  will  merely  call  attention,  however,  to  the 
fact  that  the  great  majority  of  the  insane  are 
[315] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

so  only  in  one  way.  They  have  some  delu- 
sion, but  are  otherwise  capable  of  observation 
and  of  telling  the  truth.  I  will  also  add  that 
the  editor  of  this  book  collected  an  immense 
number  of  instances  of  brutality  from  several 
men,  besides  myself,  who  had  spent  years 
there,  and  that  those  instances  also  pointed  to 
the  situation  that  I  describe.  Moreover,  I  can 
quote  the  opinion  of  the  writer  on  criminology 
— Josiah  Flynt — as  corroborative  of  my  state- 
ments. He  has  said  in  my  presence  and  in 
that  of  the  editor  of  this  book,  Mr.  Hapgood, 
that  his  researches  have  led  him  to  believe 
that  the  situation  in  our  state  asylums  for  the 
criminal  insane  is  horrible  in  the  extreme. 

Indeed,  why  shouldn't  these  attendants  be 
brutal?  In  the  first  place,  there  is  very  little 
chance  of  a  come-back,  for  who  will  believe 
men  who  have  ever  been  shut  up  in  an  insane 
asylum?  And  very  often  these  attendants 
themselves  are  unhinged  mentally.  To  begin 
with,  they  are  men  of  low  intelligence,  as  is 
shown  by  the  fact  that  they  will  work  for 
eighteen  dollars  a  month,  and  after  they  have 
associated  with  insane  men  for  years  they  are 
apt  to  become  delusional  themselves.  Taking 
care  of  idiots  and  maniacs  is  a  strain  on  the 
[316] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

intelligence  of  the  best  men.  Is  it  anywonder 
that  the  ordinary  attendant  often  becomes 
nervous  and  irascible,  and  will  fly  at  a  poor 
idiot  who  won't  do  dirty  work  or  whose  silly 
noises  get  on  his  nerves  ?  I  have  noticed 
attendants  who,  after  they  had  been  in  the 
asylum  a  few  months,  acquired  certain  insane 
characteristics,  such  as  a  jerking  of  the  head 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  looking  up  at  the 
sky,  cursing  some  imaginary  person,  and  walk- 
ing with  the  body  bent  almost  double. 

Early  in  my  stay  at  Matteawan  I  saw  some- 
thing that  made  me  realize  I  was  up  against  a 
hard  joint.  An  attendant  in  the  isolation 
ward  had  an  incurable  patient  under  him, 
whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of  compelling  to 
do  his  work  for  him,  such  as  caning  chairs 
and  cleaning  cuspidors.  The  attendants  had 
two  birds  in  his  room,  and  he  used  to  make 
Mickey,  the  incurable  idiot,  clean  out  the  cage 
for  him.  One  day  Mickey  put  the  cages 
under  the  boiling  water,  to  clean  them  as 
usual.  The  attendant  had  forgot  to  remove 
the  birds,  and  they  were  killed  by  the  hot 
water.  Another  crank,  who  was  in  the  bath 
room  with  Mickey,  spied  the  dead  pets,  and 
he  and  Mickey  began  to  eat  them.  They 
[317] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

were  picking  the  bones  when  the  attendant 
and  two  others  discovered  them — and  treated 
them  as  a  golfer  treats  his  golf-balls. 

Another  time  I  saw  an  insane  epileptic 
patient  try  to  prevent  four  attendants  from 
playing  cards  in  the  ward  on  Sunday.  He 
was  delusional  on  religious  subjects  and 
thought  the  attendants  were  doing  wrong. 
The  reward  he  received  for  caring  for  the 
religious  welfare  of  his  keepers  was  a  kick  in 
the  stomach  by  one  of  the  attendants,  while 
another  hit  him  in  the  solar  plexus,  knocking 
him  down,  and  a  third  jammed  his  head  on  the 
floor  until  the  blood  flowed.  After  he  was 
unconscious  a  doctor  gave  him  a  hyperdermic 
injection  and  he  was  put  to  bed.  How  often, 
indeed,  have  I  seen  men  knocked  out  by 
strong  arm  work,  or  strung  up  to  the  ceiling 
with  a  pair  of  suspenders  !  How  often  have 
I  seen  them  knocked  unconscious  for  a  time 
or  for  eternity — yes — for  eternity,  for  insane 
men  sometimes  do  die,  if  they  are  treated  too 
brutally.  In  that  case,  the  doctor  reports 
the  patient  as  having  died  of  consumption,  or 
some  other  disease.  I  have  seen  insane  men 
turned  into  incurable  idiots  by  the  beatings 
they  have  received  from  the  attendants.  I 
[318] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

saw  an  idiot  boy  knocked  down  with  an  iron 
pot  because  he  insisted  on  chirping  out  his 
delusion.  I  heard  a  patient  about  to  be 
beaten  by  four  attendants  cry  out :  **  My  God, 
you  won't  murder  me  ?  "  and  the  answer  was, 
"Why  not?  The  Coroner  would  say  you 
died  of  dysentery."  The  attendants  tried 
often  to  force  fear  into  me  by  making  me 
look  at  the  work  they  had  done  on  some 
harmless  lunatic.  I  could  multiply  instances 
of  this  kind.  I  could  give  scores  of  them, 
with  names  of  attendants  and  patients,  and 
sometimes  even  the  dates  on  which  these 
horrors  occurred.  But  I  must  cut  short  this 
part  of  my  narrative.  Every  word  of  it,  as 
sure  as  I  have  a  poor  old  mother,  is  true,  but 
it  is  too  terrible  to  dwell  upon,  and  will 
probably  not  be  believed.  It  will  be  put 
down  as  one  of  my  delusions,  or  as  a  lie 
inspired  by  the  desire  of  vengeance. 

Certainly  I  made  myself  obnoxious  to  the 
authorities  in  the  insane  asylum,  for  I  objected 
vigorously  to  the  treatment  of  men  really 
insane.  It  is  as  dangerous  to  object  to  the 
curriculum  of  a  mad-house  in  the  State  of  New 
York  as  it  is  to  find  fault  with  the  running  of 
che  government  in  Russia.  In  stir  I  never 
[319] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

saw  such  brutality  as  takes  place  almost  every 
day  in  the  pipe  house.  I  reported  what  I  saw, 
and  though  I  was  plainly  told  to  mind  my  own 
business,  I  continued  to  object  every  time  I 
saw  a  chance,  until  soon  the  petty  spite  of  the 
attendants  was  turned  against  me.  I  was  re- 
ported continually  for  things  I  had  not  done, 
I  had  no  privileges,  not  even  opium  or  books, 
and  was  so  miserable  that  I  repeatedly  tried 
to  be  transferred  back  to  prison.  A  doctor 
once  wrote  a  book  called  Ten  Years  in  a  Mad- 
House,  in  which  he  says  "God  help  the  man 
who  has  the  attendants  against  him  ;  for  these 
demented  brutes  will  make  his  life  a  living 
hell."  Try  as  I  might,  however,  I  was  not 
transferred  back  to  stir,  partly  because  of  the 
sane  stool-pigeons  who,  in  order  to  curry 
favor  with  the  attendants,  invented  lies  about 
attempts  on  my  part  to  escape.  If  I  had  not 
had  such  a  poor  opinion  of  the  powers  that  be 
and  had  stopped  finding  fault  I  should  no 
doubt  have  been  transferred  back  to  what  was 
beginning  to  seem  to  me,  by  contrast,  a 
delightful  place — state's  prison. 

The  all  absorbing  topic  to  me  in  the  pipe 
house  was   paresis.     I  thought  a  great   deal 
about  it,  and  observed  the  cranks  about  me 
[320] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

continually.  I  noticed  that  almost  all  insane 
persons  are  musical,  that  they  can  hum  a  tune 
after  hearing  it  only  once.  I  suppose  the 
meanest  faculty  in  the  human  brain  is  that  of 
memory,  and  that  idiots,  lunatics  and  mad- 
men learn  music  so  easily  because  that  part  of 
the  brain  which  is  the  seat  of  memory  is  the 
only  one  that  is  active ;  the  other  intellectual 
qualities  being  dead,  so  that  the  memory  is  un- 
troubled by  thought. 

I  was  often  saddened  at  the  sight  of  poor 
George,  who  had  been  a  good  dip  and  an  old 
pal  of  mine.  When  he  first  saw  me  in  the 
pipe  house  he  asked  me  about  his  girl.  I 
told  him  she  was  still  waiting,  and  he  said : 
"Why  doesn't  she  visit  me  then?"  When 
I  replied :  "  Wait  awhile, "  he  smiled  sadly, 
and  said  :  "  I  know.  "  He  then  put  his  finger 
to  his  head,  and,  hanging  his  head,  his  face 
suddenly  became  a  blank.  I  was  helpless  to 
do  anything  for  him.  I  was  so  sorry  for  him 
sometimes  that  I  wanted  to  kill  him  and  my- 
self and  end  our  misery. 

Another  friend  of  mine  thought  he  had  a 

number  of  white  blackbirds  and   used  to  talk 

to  them  excitedly  about  gold.     This  man  had 

a  finely  shaped  head.     I  have  read  in  a  book 

[321] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

of  phrenology  that  a  man's  intelligence  can  be 
estimated  by  the  shape  of  his  head.  I  don't 
think  this  theory  amounts  to  anything,  for 
most  of  the  insane  men  I  knew  had  good 
heads.  I  have  formed  a  little  theory  of  my 
own  (I  am  as  good  a  quack  as  anybody  else) 
about  insanity.  I  used  to  compare  a  well 
shaped  lunatic's  head  to  a  lady's  beautiful 
jewel  box  from  which  my  lady's  maid  had 
stolen  the  precious  stones.  The  crank's  head 
contained  both  quantity  and  quality  of  brains, 
but  the  grey  matter  was  lacking.  The  jewel 
box  and  the  lunatic's  head  were  both  beautiful 
receptacles,  but  the  value  had  flown. 

Another  lunatic,  a  man  named  Hogan, 
thought  that  girls  were  continually  bothering 
him.  "  Now  go  away,  Liz,  and  leave  me 
alone,  "  he  would  say.  One  day  a  lady  about 
fifty  years  old  visited  the  hospital  with  Super- 
intendent Allison,  and  came  to  the  violent 
ward  where  Hogan  and  I  were.  She  was  not 
a  bit  afraid,  and  went  right  up  to  Hogan  and 
questioned  him.  He  exclaimed,  excitedly, 
"  Go  away,  Meg.  You're  disfigured  enough 
without  my  giving  you  another  sockdolager. " 
She  stayed  in  the  ward  a  long  while  and  asked 
many  questions.  She  had  as  much  nerve  as 
[322] 


In  the  Mad- House. 

any  lady  I  ever  saw.  As  she  and  Allison 
were  leaving  the  ward,  Hogan  said  :  "  Allison, 
chain  her  up.  She  is  a  bad  ^gg.  "  The  next 
day  I  learned  that  this  refined,  delicate  and 
courageous  woman  had  once  gone  to  war  with 
her  husband,  a  German  prince,  who  had  been 
with  General  Sherman  on  his  memorable 
march  to  the  sea.  She  was  born  an  American, 
and  belonged  to  the  Jay  family,  but  was  now 
the  Princess  Salm-Salm. 

The  most  amusing  crank  (if  the  word 
amusing  can  be  used  of  an  insane  man)  in  the 
ward  was  an  Englishman  named  Alec.  He 
was  incurably  insane,  but  a  good  musician  and 
mathematician.  One  of  his  delusions  was  that 
he  was  the  sacred  camel  in  the  London  Zoo. 
His  mortal  enemy  was  a  lunatic  named  Jimmy 
White,  who  thought  he  was  a  mule.  Jimmy 
often  came  to  me  and  said  :  **  You  didn't  give 
your  mule  any  oats  this  morning.  "  He  would 
not  be  satisfied  until  I  pretended  to  shoe  him. 
Alec  had  great  resentment  for  Jimmy  because 
when  Alec  was  a  camel  in  the  London  Zoo 
Jimmy  used  to  prevent  the  ladies  and  the  kids 
from  giving  him  sweets.  When  Jimmy  said: 
'*  I  never  saw  the  man  before,  "  Alec  replied 
indignantly,  "  I'm  no  man.  I'm  a  sacred  camel, 
[323] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

and  I  won't  be  interfered  with  by  an  ordinary, 
common  mule,  like  you.  " 

There  are  divers  sorts  of  insanity.  I  had 
an  interview  with  a  doctor,  a  high  officer  in 
the  institution,  which  convinced  me,  perhaps 
without  reason,  that  insanity  was  not  limited 
to  the  patients  and  attendants.  One  day  an 
insane  man  was  struck  by  an  attendant  in  the 
solar  plexus.  He  threw  his  hands  up  in  the 
air,  and  cried  :  "  My  God,  I'm  killed".  I  said 
to  another  man  in  the  ward :  "  There's  mur- 
der". He  said:  "How  do  you  know?"  I 
replied:  "I  have  seen  death  a  few  times." 
In  an  hour,  sure  enough,  the  report  came  that 
the  insane  man  was  dead.  A  few  days  later  I 
was  talking  with  the  doctor  referred  to  and  I 
said  : 

"  I  was  an  eye-witness  of  the  assault  on 
D ."     And  I  described  the  affair. 

"You  have  been  reported  to  me  repeatedly," 
he  replied. 

"  By  whom  ? "  I  asked,  "  attendants  or 
patients  ?" 

"  By  patients,"  he  replied. 

"Surely,"    I   remarked,   "you  don't  believe 
half  what  insane  men  tell  you,  do  you  ?     Doc- 
tor, these  same  patients  (in  reality  sane  stool- 
[324] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

pigeons)  that  have  been  reporting  me,  have 
accused  you  of  every  crime  in  the  calendar." 

"  Oh,  but,"  he  said,  "  I  am  an  old  man  and 
the  father  of  a  family." 

"  Doctor,"  I  continued,  "  do  you  believe 
that  a  man  can  be  a  respectable  physician  and 
still  be  insane?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  said. 

"  In  California  lately,"  I  replied,  "  A  super- 
intendent of  an  insane  asylum  has  been  accused 
of  murder,  arson,  rape  and  peculation.  This 
man,  too,  was  more  than  fifty,  had  a  mother, 
a  wife  and  children,  and  belonged  to  a  profes- 
sion which  ought  to  be  more  sympathetic  with 
a  patient  than  the  church  with  its  communi- 
cants. When  a  man  will  stoop  to  such  crimes, 
is  it  not  possible  that  there  is  a  form  of  mental 
disease  called  partial,  periodical  paralysis  of 
the  faculty  humane,  and  was  not  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  right  when  he  wrote  Dr.  Jekyl  and 
Mr.  Hyde  ?  " 

The  doctor  grabbed  me  by  the  wrist  and 
shouted :  "  Don't  you  dare  to  tell  anybody 
about  this  interview."  I  looked  into  his  eyes 
and  smiled,  for  I  am  positive  that  at  that 
moment  I  looked  into  the  eyes  of  a  madman. 

King  Kelly,  an  attendant  who  had  been  on 
[325] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

duty  in  insane  asylums  for  many  years,  was 
very  energetic  in  trying  to  get  information 
from  the  stool-pigeons.  The  patients  used  to 
pass  notes  around  among  themselves,  and  the 
attendants  were  always  eager  to  get  hold  of 
those  notes,  expecting  to  find  news  of  beats 
(escapes)  about  to  be  attempted.  I  knew 
that  King  Kelly  was  eager  to  discover  "beats" 
and  as  I,  not  being  a  stool-pigeon,  was  in  bad 
odor  with  him,  I  determined  to  give  him  a  jar. 
So  one  day  I  wrote  him  the  following  note  : 

"  Mr.  Kelly  ;  You  have  been  in  this  hospi- 
tal for  years.  The  socks  and  suspenders 
which  should  go  to  the  patients  are  divided 
impartially  between  you  and  the  other  atten- 
dants. Of  the  four  razors,  which  lately  arrived 
for  patients,  two  are  in  your  trunk,  one  you 
sent  to  your  brother  in  Ireland,  and  the  fourth 
you  keep  in  the  ward  for  show,  in  case  the 
doctor  should  be  coming  around." 

That  night  when  I  was  going  to  bed  I 
slipped  the  note  into  the  King's  hand  and 
whispered :  **  There's  going  to  be  a  beat  to- 
night." The  King  turned  pale,  and  hurriedly 
ordered  the  men  in  the  ward  to  bed,  so  that 
he  could  read  the  note.  Before  reading  it  he 
handed  it  to  a  doctor,  to  be  sure  to  get  the 
[326] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

credit  of  stopping  the  beat  as  soon  as  possible. 
The  doctor  read  it  and  gave  the  King  the 
laugh.  In  the  morning,  when  the  doctor  made 
his  rounds,  Mr.  Kelly  said  to  him  :  "  We 
have  one  or  two  funny  men  in  the  ward  who, 
instead  of  robbing  decent  people,  could  have 
made  their  fortunes  at  Tony  Pastor's."  The 
result  was  that  the  doctor  put  me  down  for 
three  or  four  new  delusions.  Knowing  the 
Celtic  character  thoroughly  I  used  to  crack 
many  a  joke  on  the  King.  I  would  say  to 
another  patient,  as  the  King  passed:  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  Kelly  we  should  have  escaped 
that  time  sure."  That  would  make  him  wild. 
My  gift  of  ridicule  was  more  than  once  valu- 
able to  me  in  the  mad-house. 

But  I  must  say  that  the  King  was  pretty 
kind  when  a  patient  was  ill.  When  I  was  so 
ill  and  weak  that  I  didn't  care  whether  I  died 
or  not,  the  old  King  used  to  give  me  extras, — 
milk,  eggs  and  puddings.  And  in  his  heart 
the  old  man  hated  stool-pigeons,  for  by  nature 
he  was  a  dynamiter  and  believed  in  physical 
force  and  not  mental  treachery. 

The  last  few  months  I  served  in  the  insane 
asylum  was  at  Dannemora,  where  I  was  trans- 
ferred  from  Matteawan.     The   conditions  at 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

the  two  asylums  are  much  the  same.  While 
at  Dannemora  I  continued  my  efforts  to  be 
sent  back  to  stir  to  finish  my  sentence,  and 
used  to  talk  to  the  doctors  about  it  as  often  as 
I  had  an  opportunity.  A  few  months  before 
I  was  released  I  had  an  interview  with  a  Com- 
missioner— the  first  one  in  three  years,  although 
I  had  repeatedly  demanded  to  talk  to  one. 

"How  is  it,"  I  said,  "that  I  am  not  sent 
back  to  stir  ? " 

He  turned  to  the  ward  doctor  and  asked  : 
"  What  is  this  man's  condition  ?" 

"  Imaginary  wrongs,"  replied  the  doctor. 

That  made  me  angry,  and  I  remarked, 
sarcastically :  "  It  is  curious  that  when  a  man 
tries  to  make  a  success  at  little  things  he  is  a 
dead  failure." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  Superin- 
tendent, trying  to  feel  me  out  for  a  new  delu- 
sion. 

I  pointed  to  the  doctor  and  said  :  "  Only 
a  few  years  ago  this  man  was  interlocutor  in 
an  amateur  minstrel  troupe.  As  a  barn-stormer 
he  was  a  failure.  Since  he  has  risen  to  the 
height  of  being  a  mad-house  doctor  he  is  a 
success." 

Then  I  turned  to  the  Commissioner  and 
[328] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

said  :  "  Do  you  know  what  constitutes  a  cure 
in  this  place  and  in  Matteawan  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  know,"  he  replied. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "when  a  man  stoops  to 
carrying  tales  on  other  patients  and  starts  in 
to  work  cleaning  cuspidors,  then,  and  not  till 
then,  he  is  cured.  Everybody  knows  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  attendants  and  doctors,  the  worst 
delusions  in  the  aslyum  are  wanting  to  go 
home,  demanding  more  food,  and  disliking  to 
do  dirty  work  and  bear  tales." 

I  don't  know  whether  my  talk  with  the 
Commissioner  had  any  effect  or  not,  but  a 
little  while  after  that,  when  my  term  expired, 
I  was  released.  I  had  been  afraid  I  should 
not  be,  for  very  often  a  man  is  kept  in  the 
asylum  long  after  his  term  expires,  even 
though  he  is  no  more  insane  than  I  was.  When 
the  stool-pigeons  heard  that  I  was  to  be  re- 
leased they  thought  I  must  have  been  a  rat  under 
cover,  and  applied  every  vile  name  to  me. 

I  had  been  in  hell  for  several  years  ;  but 
even  hell  has  its  uses.  When  I  was  sent  up 
for  my  third  term,  I  thought  I  should  not  live 
my  bit  out,  and  that,  as  long  as  I  did  live,  I 
should  remain  a  grafter  at  heart.  But  the 
pipe  house  cured  me,  or  helped  to  cure  me,  of 
[329] 


The  Autobiography  of  a   Thief. 

a  vice  which,  if  it  had  continued,  would  have 
made  me  incapable  of  reform,  even  if  I  had 
lived.  I  mean  the  opium  habit.  Before  I 
went  to  the  mad-house  there  had  been  periods 
when  I  had  little  opium,  either  because  I  could 
not  obtain  it,  or  because  I  was  trying  to 
knock  it  off.  My  sufferings  in  consequence 
had  been  violent,  but  the  worst  moral  and 
physical  torture  that  has  ever  fallen  to  my  lot 
came  to  me  after  I  had  entered  the  pipe 
house ;  for  I  could  practically  get  no  opium. 
That  deprivation,  added  to  the  horrors  I  saw 
every  day,  was  enough  to  make  any  man 
crazy.  At  least,  I  thought  so  at  the  time.  I 
must  have  had  a  good  nervous  system  to  have 
passed  through  it  all. 

Insufficient  hop  is  almost  as  bad  as  none  at 
all.  During  my  first  months  in  the  mad- 
house, the  doctor  occasionally  took  pity  on 
me  and  gave  me  a  little  of  the  drug,  but  taken 
in  such  small  quantities  it  was  worse  than  use- 
less. He  used  to  give  me  sedatives,  however, 
which  calmed  me  for  a  time.  Occasionally, 
too,  I  would  get  a  little  hop  from  a  trusty, 
who  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  had  smuggled 
in  some  tablets  of  morphine  from  stir  ;  but  the 
supply  was  soon  exhausted,  and  I  saw  that  the 
[  330  ] 


In  the  Mad-House. 

only  thing  to  do  was  to  knock  it  oft  entirely. 
This  I  did,  and  made  no  more  attempts  to 
obtain  the  drug.  For  the  last  two  years  in 
the  asylum  I  did  not  have  a  bit  of  it.  I  can 
not  describe  the  agonies  I  went  through. 
Every  nerve  and  muscle  in  my  body  was  in 
pain  most  of  the  time,  my  stomach  was  con- 
stantly deranged,  my  eyes  and  mouth  exuded 
water,  and  I  could  not  sleep.  Thoughts  of 
suicide  were  constant  with  me.  Of  course,  I 
could  never  have  given  up  this  baleful  habit 
through  my  own  efforts  alone.  The  pipe  house 
forced  me  to  make  the  attempt,  and  after  I 
had  held  off  for  two  years,  I  had  enough 
strength  to  continue  in  the  right  path,  although 
even  now  the  longing  for  it  returns  to  me.  It 
does  not  seem  possible  that  I  can  ever  go 
back  to  it,  for  that  terrible  experience  in  the 
mad-house  made  an  indelible  impression.  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  wipe  out  those  horrors 
entirely  from  my  mind.  When  under  the  in- 
fluence of  opium  I  used  frequently  to  imagine 
I  smelled  the  fragrance  of  white  flowers.  I 
never  smell  certain  sweet  perfumes  now  with- 
out the  whole  horrible  experience  rushing 
before  my  mind.  Life  in  a  mad-house  taught 
me  a  lesson  I  shall  never  forget. 
[331] 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Out  of  Hell. 

I  LEFT  Dannemora  asylum  for  the  criminal 
insane  on  a  cold  winter  morning.  I  had  my 
tickets  to  New  York,  but  not  a  cent  of  money. 
Relatives  or  friends  are  supposed  to  provide 
that.  I  was  happy,  however,  and  I  made  a 
resolution,  which  this  time  I  shall  keep,  never 
to  go  to  stir  or  the  pipe  house  again.  I  knew 
very  well  that  I  could  never  repeat  such  an 
experience  without  going  mad  in  reality;  or 
dying.  The  first  term  I  spent  in  stir  I  had 
my  books  and  a  new  life  of  beauty  and 
thought  to  think  about.  Once  for  all  I  had 
had  that  experience.  The  thought  of  going 
through  prison  routine  again — the  damp  cells, 
the  poor  food,  the  habits  contracted,  with  the 
mad-house  at  the  end — no,  that  could  never 
be  for  me  again.  I  felt  this,  as  I  heard  the 
loons  yelling  good-bye  to  me  from  the  win- 
dows. I  looked  at  the  gloomy  building  and 
said  to  myself:  "I  have  left  Hell,  and  I'll 
shovel  coal  before  I  go  back.  All  the  ideas 
that  brought  me  here  I  will  leave  behind.  In 
[332] 


Out  of  Hell. 

the  future  I  will  try  to  get  all  the  good  things 
out  of  life  that  I  can — the  really  good  things, 
a  glimpse  of  which  I  got  through  my  books. 
I  think  there  is  still  sufficient  grey  matter  in 
my  brain  for  that." 

I  took  the  train  for  New  York,  but  stopped 
off  at  Plattsburg  and  Albany  to  deliver  some 
messages  from  the  poor  unfortunates  to  their 
relatives.  I  arrived  in  New  York  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  having  had  nothing  to  eat  all 
day.  My  relatives  and  friends  had  left  the 
station,  but  were  waiting  up  for  me  in  my 
brother's  house.  This  time  I  went  straight  to 
them.  My  father  had  died  while  I  was  in  the 
pipe  house,  and  now  I  determined  that  I 
would  be  at  last  a  kind  son  to  the  mother  who 
had  never  deserted  me.  I  think  she  felt  that 
I  had  changed  and  the  tears  that  flowed  from 
her  eyes  were  not  all  from  unhappiness.  She 
told  me  about  my  father's  last  illness,  and  how 
cheerful  he  had  been.  "  I  bought  him  a  pair 
of  new  shoes  a  month  before  he  died,"  she 
said.  "He  laughed  when  he  saw  them  and 
said  :  '  What  extravagance  !  To  buy  shoes 
for  a  dying  man  ! '  " 

Living  right  among  them,  I  met  again,  of 
course,  many  of  my  old  companions  in  crime, 
[333] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

and  found  that  many  of  them  had  thought  I 
was  dead.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I 
met  "  Al ",  driving  a  peddler's  wagon.  He, 
like  me,  had  squared  it.  "  I  thought  you  died 
in  the  pipe  house,  Jim,"  he  said.  This  has 
happened  to  me  a  dozen  times  since  my  return. 
I  had  spent  so  much  time  in  stir  that  the  gen- 
eral impression  among  the  guns  at  home 
seemed  to  be  that  I  had  "  gone  up  the  escape." 

As  a  general  thing  I  found  that  guns  who 
had  squared  it  and  become  prosperous  had 
never  been  very  successful  grafters.  Some  of 
the  best  box-men  and  burglars  in  the  business 
are  now  bar-tenders  in  saloons  owned  by 
former  small  fry  among  the  dips.  There  are 
waiters  now  in  saloons  and  concert  halls  on 
the  bowery  who  were  far  cleverer  thieves  than 
the  men  who  employ  them,  and  who  are  worth 
thousands.  Hungry  Joe  is  an  instance. 
Once  he  was  King  of  confidence  men,  and  on 
account  of  his  great  plausibility  got  in  on  a 
noted  person,  on  one  occasion,  for  several 
thousand  dollars.  And  now  he  will  beg  many 
a  favor  of  men  he  would  not  look  at  in  the 
old  days. 

A  grafter  is  jealous,  suspicious  and  vindic- 
tive. I  had  always  known  that,  but  never 
[334] 


Out  of  Hell, 

realized  it  so  keenly  as  I  have  since  my  return 
from  the  mad-house.  Above  everything  else 
a  grafter  is  suspicious,  whether  he  has  squared 
it  or  not — suspicious  of  his  pals  and  of  every- 
body else.  When  my  old  pals  saw  that  I  was 
not  working  with  them,  they  wondered  what 
my  private  graft  was.  When  I  told  them  I 
was  on  the  level  and  was  looking  for  a  job, 
they  either  laughed  or  looked  at  me  with 
suspicion  in  their  eyes.  They  saw  I  was  look- 
ing good  (well-dressed)  and  they  could  not 
understand  it.  They  put  me  down,  some  of 
them,  as  a  stool-pigeon.  They  all  feel  instinc- 
tively that  I  am  no  longer  with  them,  and 
most  of  them  have  given  me  the  frosty  mit. 
Only  the  bums  who  used  to  be  grafters  sail  up 
to  me  in  the  Bowery.  They  have  not  got 
enough  sense  left  even  for  suspicion.  The 
dips  who  hang  out  in  the  thieves'  resorts  are 
beginning  to  hate  me ;  not  because  I  want  to 
injure  them,  for  I  don't,  but  because  they 
think  I  do.  I  told  one  of  them,  an  old  friend, 
that  I  was  engaged  in  some  literary  work. 
He  was  angry  in  an  instant  and  said:  "You 
door  mat  thief.  You  couldn't  get  away  with 
a  coal-scuttle." 

One  day  I  was  taking  the  editor  of  this  book 
[335] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

through  the  Bowery,  pointing  out  to  him  some 
of  my  old  resorts,  when  I  met  an  old  pal  of 
mine,  who  gave  me  the  glad  hand.  We  had  a 
drink,  and  I,  who  was  feeling  good,  started  in 
to  jolly  him  a  little.  He  had  told  me  about 
an  old  pal  of  ours  who  had  just  fallen  for  a 
book  and  was  confined  in  a  Brooklyn  jail.  I 
took  out  a  piece  of  "copy"  paper  and  took 
the  address,  intending  to  pay  a  visit  to  him,  for 
everybody  wants  sympathy.  What  a  look 
went  over  that  grafter's  face  !  I  saw  him 
glance  quickly  at  the  editor  and  then  at  me, 
and  I  knew  then  he  had  taken  alarm,  and 
probably  thought  we  were  Pinkerton  men,  or 
something  as  bad.  I  tried  to  carry  it  off  with 
a  laugh,  for  the  place  was  full  of  thieves,  and 
told  him  I  would  get  him  a  job  on  a  news- 
paper. He  answered  hastily  that  he  had  a 
good  job  in  the  pool-room  and  was  on  the 
level.  He  started  in  to  try  to  square  it  with 
my  companion  by  saying  that  he  "adored  a 
man  who  had  a  job."  A  little  while  afterwards 
he  added  that  he  hated  anybody  who  would 
graft  after  he  had  got  an  honest  job.  Then, 
to  wind  up  his  little  game  of  squaring  himself, 
he  ended  by  declaring  that  he  had  recently 
obtained  a  very  good  position. 
[336] 


Out  of  Hell. 

That  was  one  of  the  incidents  that  queered 
me  with  the  more  intelligent  thieves.  He 
spread  the  news,  and  whenever  I  meet  one  of 
that  gang  on  the  Bowery  I  get  the  cold 
shoulder,  a  gun  is  so  mighty  quick  to  grow 
suspicious.  A  grafter  who  follows  the  busi- 
ness for  years  is  a  study  in  psychology,  and  his 
two  most  prominent  characteristics  are  fear 
and  suspicion.  If  some  stool-pigeon  tips  him 
off  to  the  police,  and  he  is  sent  to  stir,  he  in- 
variably suspects  the  wrong  person.  He  tells 
his  friends  in  stir  that  "  Al  done  him,"  and 
pretty  soon  poor  Al,  who  may  be  an  honest 
thief,  is  put  down  as  a  rat.  If  Al  goes  to  stir 
very  often  the  result  is  a  cutting  match  between 
the  two. 

There  are  many  convicts  in  prison  who  lie 
awake  at  night  concocting  stories  about  other 
persons,  accusing  them  of  the  vilest  of  actions. 
If  the  prisoner  can  get  hold  of  a  Sunday  news- 
paper he  invariably  reads  the  society  news 
very  carefully.  He  can  tell  more  about  the 
Four  Hundred  than  the  swells  will  ever  know 
about  themselves  ;  and  he  tells  very  little  good 
of  them.  Such  stones  are  fabricated  in  prison 
and  repeated  out  of  it. 

When  I  was  in  Auburn  stir  I  knew  a  young 
[337] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

fellow  named  Sterling,  as  straight  a  thief  as 
ever  did  time.  He  had  the  courage  of  a 
grenadier  and  objected  to  everything  that  was 
mean  and  petty.  He  therefore  had  many 
enemies  in  prison,  and  they  tried  to  make  him 
unpopular  by  accusing  him  of  a  horrible  crime. 
The  story  reached  my  ears  and  I  tried  to  put 
a  stop  to  it,  but  I  only  did  him  the  more  harm. 
When  Sterling  heard  the  tale  he  knocked  one 
of  his  traducers  senseless  with  an  iron  bar. 
Tongues  wagged  louder  than  ever  and  one 
day  he  came  to  me  and  talked  about  it  and  I 
saw  a  wild  look  in  his  eyes.  His  melancholia 
started  in  about  that  time,  and  he  began  to 
suspect  everybody,  including  me.  H  is  enemies 
put  the  keepers  against  him  and  they  made 
his  life  almost  unbearable.  Generally  the  men 
that  tip  off  keepers  to  the  alleged  violent 
character  of  some  convict  are  the  worst  stool- 
pigeons  in  the  prison.  Even  the  Messiah 
could  not  pass  through  this  world  without 
arousing  the  venom  of  the  crowd.  How  in  the 
name  of  common  sense,  then,  could  Sterling, 
or  I,  or  any  other  grafter  expect  otherwise 
than  to  be  traduced  ?  It  was  the  politicians 
who  were  the  cause  of  Christ's  trials ;  and  the 
politicians  are  the  same  to-day  as  they  were 
[338] 


Out  of  Hell. 

then.  They  have  very  little  brains,  but  they 
have  the  low  cunning  which  is  the  first  attri- 
bute of  the  human  brute.  They  pretend  to  be 
the  people's  advisers,  but  pile  up  big  bank 
accounts.  Even  the  convict  scum  that  come 
from  the  lower  wards  of  the  city  have  all  the 
requisites  of  the  successful  politician.  Nor 
can  one  say  that  these  criminals  are  of  low 
birth,  for  they  trace  their  ancestors  back  for 
centuries.  The  fact  that  convicts  slander  one 
another  with  glee  and  hear  with  joy  of  the 
misfortunes  of  their  fellows,  is  a  sign  that  they 
come  from  a  very  old  family  ;  from  the  wretched 
human  stock  that  demanded  the  crucifixion  of 
Christ. 

This  evil  trait,  suspiciousness,  is  something 
I  should  like  to  eliminate  from  my  own  char- 
acter. Even  now  I  am  afflicted  with  it. 
Since  my  release  I  often  have  the  old  feeling 
come  over  me  that  I  am  being  watched  ;  and 
sometimes  without  any  reason  at  all.  Only 
recently  I  was  riding  on  a  Brooklyn  car,  when 
a  man  sitting  opposite  happened  to  glance  at 
me  two  or  three  times.  I  gave  him  an  irrita- 
ted look.  Then  he  stared  at  me,  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  I  suppose.  That  was  too 
much,  and  I  asked  him,  with  my  nerves  on 
[339] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

edge,  if  he  had  ever  seen  me  before.  He  said 
"  No  ",  with  a  surprised  look,  and  I  felt  cheap, 
as  I  always  do  after  such  an  incident.  A 
neighbor  of  mine  has  a  peculiar  habit  of 
watching  me  quietly  whenever  I  visit  his 
family.  I  know  that  he  is  ignorant  of  my 
past  but  when  he  stares  at  me,  I  am  rattled. 
I  begin  to  suspect  that  he  is  studying  me, 
wondering  who  I  am.      The  other  day  I  said 

to  him,  irritably:     "Mr.   K ,  you  have  a 

bad  habit  of  watching  people."  He  laughed 
carelessly   and    I,    getting   hot,    said :      "  Mr. 

K when  I  visit  people  it  is  not  with  the 

intention  of  stealing  anything."  I  left  the 
house  in  a  huff  and  his  sister,  as  I  afterwards 
found,  rebuked  him  for  his  bad  manners. 

Indeed,  I  have  lost  many  a  friend  by  being 
over  suspicious.  I  am  suspicious  even  of  my 
family.  Sometimes  when  I  sit  quietly  at 
home  with  my  mother  in  the  evening,  as  has 
grown  to  be  a  habit  with  me,  I  see  her  look  at 
me.  I  begin  immediately  to  think  that  she  is 
wondering  whether  I  am  grafting  again.  It 
makes  me  very  nervous,  and  I  sometimes  put 
on  my  hat  and  go  out  for  a  walk,  just  to  be 
alone.  One  day,  when  I  was  in  stir,  my 
mother  visited  me,  as  she  always  did  when  they 
[340] 


Out  of  Hell. 

gave  her  a  chance.  In  the  course  of  our  con- 
versation she  told  me  that  on  my  release  I 
had  better  leave  the  city  and  go  to  some  place 
where  I  was  not  known.  "  For,"  she  said, 
"  your    character,    my     boy,     is    bad."  I 

grabbed     her   by    the    arm   and    exclaimed : 

"Who    is  it   that    is  circulating   these  d 

stories  about  me  ?  "  My  poor  mother  merely 
meant,  of  course,  that  I  was  known  as  a  thief, 
but  I  thought  some  of  the  other  convicts  had 
slandered  me  to  her.  It  was  absurd,  of 
course,  but  the  outside  world  cannot  under- 
stand how  suspicious  a  grafter  is.  I  have 
often  seen  a  man,  who  afterwards  became 
insane,  begin  being  queer  through  suspicious- 
ness. 

Well,  as  I  have  said,  I  found  the  guns  sus- 
picious of  me,  when  I  told  them  I  had  squared 
it,  or  when  I  refused  to  say  anything  about 
my  doings.  Of  course  I  don't  care,  for  I  hate 
the  Bowery  now  and  everything  in  it.  When- 
ever I  went,  as  I  did  several  times  with  my 
editor,  to  a  gun  joint,  a  feeling  of  disgust 
passed  over  me.  I  pity  my  old  pals,  but  they 
no  longer  interest  me.  I  look  upon  them  as 
failures.  I  have  seen  a  new  light  and  I  shall 
follow  it.  Whatever  the  public  may  think  of 
[341] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

this  book,  it  has  already  been  a  blessing  to 
me.  For  it  has  been  honest  work  that  I  and 
my  friend  the  editor  have  done  together,  and 
leads  me  to  think  that  there  may  yet  be  a  new 
life  for  me.  I  feel  now  that  I  should  prefer  to 
talk  and  associate  with  the  meanest  working- 
man  in  this  city  than  with  the  swellest  thief. 
For  a  long  time  I  have  really  despised  myself. 
When  old  friends  and  relatives  look  at  me 
askance  I  say  to  myself :  *'  How  can  I  prove 
to  them  that  I  am  not  the  same  as  I  was  in 
the  past  ?  "  No  wonder  the  authorities  thought 
I  was  mad.  I  have  spent  the  best  years  of 
my  life  behind  the  prison  bars.  I  could  have 
made  out  of  myself  almost  anything  I  wanted, 
for  I  had  the  three  requisites  of  success :  per- 
sonal appearance,  health  and,  I  think,  some 
brains.  But  what  have  I  done  ?  After  ruin- 
ing my  life,  I  have  not  even  received  the  pro- 
verbial mess  of  pottage.  As  I  look  back  upon 
my  life  both  introspectively  and  retrospec- 
tively I  do  not  wonder  that  society  at  large 
despises  the  criminal. 

I  am  not  trying  to  point  a  moral  or  pose  as 

a  reformer.     I  cannot  say  that  I  quit  the  old 

life  because   of  any  religious  feeling.     I    am 

not  one  of  those  who  have  reformed  by  finding 

[342] 


Qui  of  Hell. 

Jesus  at  the  end  of  a  gas  pipe  which  they 
were  about  to  use  as  a  black  jack  on  a  citizen, 
just  in  order  to  finger  his  long  green.  I  only 
saw  by  painful  experience  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  a  life  of  crime.  I  ran  up  against  soci- 
ety, and  found  that  I  had  struck  something 
stronger  and  harder  than  a  stone  wall.  But  it 
was  not  that  alone  that  made  me  reform. 
What  was  it  ?  Was  it  the  terrible  years  I 
spent  in  prison  ?  Was  it  the  confinement  in  a 
mad-house,  where  I  daily  saw  old  pals  of  mine 
become  drivelling  idiots  ?  Was  it  my  read- 
ing of  the  great  authors,  and  my  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  beautiful  thoughts  of  the 
great  men  of  the  world  ?  Was  it  a  combina- 
tion of  these  things  ?  Perhaps  so,  but  even 
that  does  not  entirely  explain  it,  does  not  go 
deep  enough.  I  have  said  that  I  am  not  re- 
ligious, and  I  am  not  And  yet  I  have  experi- 
enced something  indefinable,  which  I  suppose 
some  people  might  call  an  awakening  of  the 
soul.  What  is  that,  after  all,  but  the  realiza- 
tion that  your  way  of  life  is  ruining  you  even 
to  the  very  foundation  of  your  nature  ? 

Perhaps,  after  all,  I  am  not  entirely  lacking 
in    religion ;    for   certainly  the    character    of 
Christ  strongly  appeals  to  me.     I   don't  care 
[343] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief, 

for  creeds,  but  the  personality  of  the  Naza- 
rene,  when  stripped  of  the  aroma  of  divinity, 
appeals  to  all  thinking  men,  I  care  not  whether 
they  are  atheists,  agnostics  or  sceptics.  Any 
man  that  has  understanding  reveres  the  life  of 
Christ,  for  He  practiced  what  He  preached 
and  died  for  humanity.  He  was  a  perfect 
specimen  of  manhood,  and  had  developed  to 
the  highest  degree  that  trait  which  is  lacking 
in  most  all  men — the  faculty  humane. 

I  believe  that  a  time  comes  in  the  lives  of 
many  grafters  when  they  desire  to  reform. 
Some  do  reform  for  good  and  all,  and  I  shall 
show  the  world  that  I  am  one  of  them ;  but 
the  difficulties  in  the  way  are  great,  and  many 
fall  again  by  the  wayside. 

They  come  out  of  prison  marked  men. 
Many  observers  can  tell  an  ex-convict  on  sight. 
The  lock-step  is  one  of  the  causes.  It  gives  a 
man  a  peculiar  gait  which  he  will  retain  all 
his  life.  The  convicts  march  close  together 
and  cannot  raise  their  chests.  They  have  to 
keep  their  faces  turned  towards  the  screw. 
Breathing  is  difficult,  and  most  convicts  suffer 
in  consequence  from  catarrh,  and  a  good 
many  from  lung  trouble.  Walking  in  lock- 
step  is  not  good  exercise,  and  makes  the  men 
[  344  ] 


0«/  of  Hell. 

nervous.  When  the  convict  is  confined  in  his 
cell  he  paces  up  and  down.  The  short  turn 
is  bad  for  his  stomach,  and  often  gets  on  his 
mind.  That  short  walk  will  always  have  con- 
trol of  me.  I  cannot  sit  down  now  to  eat  or 
write,  without  jumping  up  every  five  minutes 
in  order  to  take  that  short  walk.  I  have 
become  so  used  to  it  that  I  do  not  want  to 
leave  the  house,  for  I  can  pace  up  and  down 
in  my  room.  I  can  take  that  small  stretch  all 
day  long  and  not  be  tired,  but  if  I  walk  a  long 
straight  distance  I  get  very  much  fatigued. 
When  I  wait  for  a  train  I  always  begin  that 
short  walk  on  the  platform.  I  have  often 
caught  myself  walking  just  seven  feet  one  way, 
and  then  turning  around  and  walking  seven 
feet  in  the  opposite  direction.  Another  physi- 
cal mark,  caused  by  a  criminal  life  rather  than 
by  a  long  sojourn  in  stir,  is  an  expressionless 
cast  of  countenance.  The  old  grafter  never 
expresses  any  emotions.  He  has  schooled 
himself  until  his  face  is  a  mask,  which  betrays 
nothing. 

A  much  more  serious  difficulty  in  the  way 

of  reform  is  the  ex-convict's  health  which  is 

always  bad  if  a  long   term  of  years  has  been 

served.     Moreover,  his  brain  has  often  lost  its 

[345] 


The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 

equilibrium  and  powers  of  discernment.  When 
he  gets  out  of  prison  his  chance  of  being  able 
to  do  any  useful  work  is  slight.  He  knows 
no  trade,  and  he  is  not  strong  enough  to  do 
hard  day  labor.  He  is  given  only  ten  dollars, 
when  he  leaves  stir,  with  which  to  begin  life 
afresh.  A  man  who  has  served  a  long  term 
is  not  steady  above  the  ears  until  he  has  been 
at  liberty  several  months ;  and  what  can  such 
a  man  do  with  ten  dollars?  It  would  be 
cheaper  for  the  state  in  the  end  to  give  an 
ex-convict  money  enough  to  keep  him  for  sev- 
eral months ;  for  then  a  smaller  percentage 
would  return  to  stir.  It  would  give  the  man 
a  chance  to  make  friends,  to  look  for  a  job, 
and  to  show  the  world  that  he  is  in  earnest. 

A  criminal  who  is  trying  to  reform  is  gen- 
erally a  very  helpless  being.  He  was  not,  to 
begin  with,  the  strongest  man  mentally,  and 
after  confinement  is  still  less  so.  He  is  pre- 
occupied, suspicious  and  a  dreamer,  and  when 
he  gets  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  all  his  naked 
realities,  is  apt  to  become  depressed  and  dis- 
couraged. He  is  easily  led,  and  certainly  no 
man  needs  a  good  friend  as  much  as  the  ex- 
convict.  He  is  distrusted  by  everybody,  is 
apt  to  be  "piped  off"  wherever  he  goes,  and 
[346] 


Out  of  Hell. 

finds  it  hard  to  get  work  which  he  can  do. 
There  are  hundreds  of  men  in  our  prisons  to- 
day who,  if  they  could  find  somebody  who 
would  trust  them  and  take  a  genuine  interest 
in  them,  would  reform  and  become  respect- 
able citizens.  That  is  where  the  Tammany 
politician,  whom  I  have  called  Senator  Wet 
Coin  is  a  better  man  than  the  majority  of 
reformers.  When  a  man  goes  to  him  and  says 
he  wants  to  square  it  he  takes  him  by  the 
hand,  trusts  and  helps  him.  Wet  Coin  does 
not  hand  him  a  soup  ticket  and  a  tract  nor 
does  he  hold  on  tight  to  his  own  watch  chain 
fearing  for  his  red  super,  hastily  bidding  the 
ex-gun  to  be  with  Jesus. 


[347] 


EDITOR'S  POSTSCRIPT. 

The  life  of  the  thief  is  at  an  end ;  and  the 
life  of  the  man  and  good  citizen  has  begun. 
For  I  am  convinced  that  Jim  is  strictly  on  the 
level,  and  will  remain  so.  The  only  thing  yet 
lacking  to  make  his  reform  sure  is  a  job.  I, 
and  those  of  my  friends  who  are  interested, 
have  as  yet  failed  to  find  anything  for  him  to 
do  that  is,  under  the  circumstances,  desirable. 
The  story  of  my  disappointments  in  this  re- 
spect is  a  long  one,  and  I  shall  not  tell  it.  I 
have  learned  to  think  that  patience  is  the 
greatest  of  the  virtues ;  and  of  this  virtue  an 
ex-gun  needs  an  enormous  amount.  If  Jim 
and  his  friends  prove  good  in  this  way,  the  job 
will  come.  But  waiting  is  hard,  for  Jim  is 
nervous,  in  bad  health,  with  an  old  mother  to 
look  after,  and  with  new  ambitions  which 
make  keen  his  sense  of  time  lost. 

One  word  about  his  character  :  I  sometimes 
think  of  my  friend  the  ex-thief  as  "  Light- 
[348] 


Editor  s  Postscript. 

fingered  Jim  "  ;  and  in  that  name  there  lingers 
a  note  of  vague  apology.  As  he  told  his 
story  to  me,  I  saw  everywhere  the  mark  of 
the  natural  rogue,  of  the  man  grown  with  a 
roguish  boy's  brain.  The  humor  of  much  of 
his  tale  seemed  to  me  strong.  I  was  never 
able  to  look  upon  him  as  a  deliberate  male- 
factor. He  constantly  impressed  me  as  gentle 
and  imaginative,  impressionable  and  easily 
influenced,  but  not  naturally  vicious  or  vin- 
dictive. If  I  am  right,  his  reform  is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  the  coming  to  years  of  sober 
maturity.  He  is  now  thirty-five  years  old,  and 
as  he  himself  puts  it :  "  Some  men  acquire  wis- 
dom at  twenty-one,  others  at  thirty-five,  and 
some  never." 


[349] 


EVERYMAN 


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